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THE    INDIAN   DRUM 


As  Constance  started  away,  Spearman  suddenly  drew  her  back 
to  him  and  kissed  her.     FRONTISPIECE. 


THE 
INDIAN  DRUM 


BY 

WILLIAM   MAcHARG 

AND 

EDWIN  BALMER 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

W.  T.  BENDA 


NEW   YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1917, 
BY  EDWIN  BALMER 

All  rights  reserved 


M 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTKB  PAGE 

I  THE  MAX  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED       .          1 

II  WHO  Is  ALAN  CONRAD?   .           .          .           .19 

III  DISCUSSION   OF  A   SHADOW          ...        34 

IV  "ARRIVED    SAFE;    WELL"          .          .          .57 

V  AN  ENCOUNTER       .....        69 

VI  '  CONSTANCE  SHERRILL        ....        93 

VII  THE  DEED  IN  TRUST          .          .          .           .112 

VIII  MR.   CORVET'S  PARTNER    .          .          .          .126 

IX  VIOLENCE         .           .          .          .          .          .145 

X  A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE          .          .          .162 

XI  A   CALLER       ......      179 

XII  THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUM          .          .          .199 

XIII  THE  THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS          .      210 

XIV  THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH      .           .          .      229 
XV  OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY          .          .          .     254 

XVI  A  GHOST  SHIP         .                                         .266 

X«VII  "  HE  KILLED  YOUR  FATHER  "   .          .          .      288 

XVIII  MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH     .          .          .298 

XIX  THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH          .          .318 

XX  THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  DRUM   .          .          .      335 

XXI  THE  FATE  OF  THE  MIWAKA                  .          .     S47 


1239222 


THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

CHAPTER  1 

THE   MAN    WHOM    THE    STOEM    HAUNTED 

NEAR  the  northern  end  of  Lake  Michigan,  where 
the  bluff -bowed  ore-carriers  and  the  big,  low- 
lying,  wheat-laden  steel  freighters  from  Lake 
Superior  push  out  from  the  Straits  of  Mackinac  and 
dispute  the  right  of  way,  in  the  island  divided  channel, 
with  the  white-and-gold,  electric  lighted,  wireless 
equipped  passenger  steamers  bound  for  Detroit  and 
Buffalo,  there  is  a  copse  of  pine  and  hemlock  back 
from  the  shingly  beach.  From  this  copse  —  dark, 
blue,  primeval,  silent  at  most  times  as  when  the  Great 
Manitou  ruled  his  inland  waters  —  there  comes  at  time 
of  storm  a  sound  like  the  booming  of  an  old  Indian 
drum.  This  drum  beat,  so  the  tradition  says,  when- 
ever the  lake  took  a  life ;  and,  as  a  sign  perhaps  that  it 
is  still  the  Manitou  who  rules  the  waters  in  spite  of  all 
the  commerce  of  the  cities,  the  drum  still  beats  its  roll 
for  every  ship  lost  on  the  lake,  one  beat  for  every  life. 
So  —  men  say  —  they  heard  and  counted  the  beat- 
ings of  the  drum  to  thirty-five  upon  the  hour  when, 
as  afterward  they  learned,  the  great  steel  steamer 
Wenota  sank  with  twenty-four  of  its  crew  and  eleven 
passengers ;  so  —  men  say  —  they  heard  the  requiem 


4  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

was  this  frost  on  the  panes  of  the  Fort  Dearborn  Club 

—  one  of  the  staidest  of  the  down-town  clubs  for  men 

—  that  the  great  log  fires  blazing  on  the  open  hearths 
added  appreciable  light  as  well  as  warmth  to  the  rooms. 

The  few  members  present  at  this  hour  of  the  after- 
noon showed  by  their  lazy  attitudes  and  the  desultori- 
ness  of  their  conversation  the  dulling  of  vitality  which 
warmth  and  shelter  bring  on  a  day  of  cold  and  storm. 
On  one,  however,  the  storm  had  had  a  contrary  effect. 
With  swift,  uneven  steps  he  paced  now  one  room,  now 
another;  from  time  to  time  he  stopped  abruptly  by  a 
window,  scraped  from  it  with  finger  nail  the  frost, 
stared  out  for  an  instant  through  the  little  opening  he 
had  made,  then  resumed  as  abruptly  his  nervous  pacing 
with  a  manner  so  uneasy  and  distraught  that,  since  his 
arrival  at  the  club  an  hour  before,  none  even  among 
those  who  knew  him  best  had  ventured  to  speak  to  him. 

There  are,  in  every  great  city,  a  few  individuals  who 
from  their  fullness  of  experience  in  an  epoch  of  the 
city's  life  come  to  epitomize  that  epoch  in  the  general 
mind;  when  one  thinks  of  a  city  or  of  a  section  of  the 
country  in  more  personal  terms  than  its  square  miles, 
its  towering  buildings,  and  its  censused  millions,  one 
must  think  of  those  individuals.  Almost  every  great 
industry  owns  one  and  seldom  more  than  one;  that 
often  enough  is  not,  in  a  money  sense,  the  predominant 
figure  of  his  industry ;  others  of  his  rivals  or  even  of 
his  partners  may  be  actually  more  powerful  than  he ; 
but  he  is  the  personality ;  he  represents  to  the  outsiders 
the  romance  and  mystery  of  the  secrets  and  early, 
naked  adventures  of  the  great  achievement.  Thus,  to 
think  of  the  great  mercantile  establishments  of  State 
Street  is  to  think  immediately  of  one  man;  another 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED        5 

very  vivid  and  picturesque  personality  stands  for  the 
stockyards ;  another  rises  from  the  wheat  pit ;  one 
more  from  the  banks ;  one  from  the  steel  works.  The 
man  who  was  pacing  restlessly  and  alone  the  rooms 
of  the  Fort  Dearborn  Club  on  this  stormy  afternoon 
was  the  man  who,  to  most  people,  bodied  forth  the  life 
underlying  all  other  commerce  thereabouts  but  t.he 
least  known,  the  life  of  the  lakes. 

The  lakes,  which  mark  unmistakably  those  who  get 
their  living  from  them,  had  put  their  marks  on  him. 
Though  he  was  slight  in  frame  with  a  spare,  almost 
ascetic  leanness,  he  had  the  wiry  strength  and  endur- 
ance of  the  man  whose  youth  had  been  passed  upon 
the  water.  He  was  very  close  to  sixty  now,  but  his 
thick,  straight  hair  was  still  jet  black  except  for  a 
slash  of  pure  white  above  one  temple;  his  brows  were 
black  above  his  deep  blue  eyes.  Unforgettable  eyes,  they 
were;  they  gazed  at  one  directly  with  surprising,  dis- 
concerting intrusion  into  one's  thoughts ;  then,  before 
amazement  altered  to  resentment,  one  realized  that, 
though  he  was  still  gazing,  his  eyes  were  vacant  with 
speculation  —  a  strange,  lonely  withdrawal  into  him- 
self. His  acquaintances,  in  explaining  him  to  stran- 
gers, said  he  had  lived  too  much  by  himself  of  late ;  he 
and  one  man  servant  shared  the  great  house  which  had 
been  unchanged  —  and  in  which  nothing  appeared  to 
have  been  worn  out  or  have  needed  replacing  —  since 
his  wife  left  him,  suddenly  and  unaccountably,  about 
twenty  years  before.  At  that  time  he  had  looked 
much  the  same  as  now ;  since  then,  the  white  slash  upon 
his  temple  had  grown  a  bit  broader  perhaps ;  his  nose 
had  become  a  trifle  aquiline,  his  chin  more  sensitive, 
his  well  formed  hands  a  little  more  slender.  People 


6  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

said  he  looked  more  French,  referring  to  his  father 
who  was  known  to  have  been  a  skin-hunter  north  of 
Lake  Superior  in  the  50's  but  who  later  married  an 
English  girl  at  Mackinac  and  settled  down  to  become 
a  trader  in  the  woods  of  the  North  Peninsula,  where 
Benjamin  Corvet  was  born. 

Duriag  his  boyhood,  men  came  to  the  peninsula  to 
cut  timber ;  young  Corvet  worked  with  them  and  began 
building  ships.  Thirty-five  years  ago,  he  had  been 
only  one  of  the  hundreds  with  his  fortune  in  the  fate 
of  a  single  bottom;  but  to-day  in  Cleveland,  in  Du- 
luth,  in  Chicago,  more  than  a  score  of  great  steamers 
under  the  names  of  various  interdependent  companies 
were  owned  or  controlled  by  him  and  his  two  partners, 
Sherrill  and  young  Spearman. 

He  was  a  quiet,  gentle-mannered  man.  At  times, 
however,  he  suffered  from  fits  of  intense  irritability, 
and  these  of  late  had  increased  in  frequency  and  vio- 
lence. It  had  been  noticed  that  these  outbursts  oc- 
curred generally  at  times  of  storm  upon  the  lake,  but 
the  mere  threat  of  financial  loss  through  the  destruc- 
tion of  one  or  even  more  of  his  ships  was  not  now 
enough  to  cause  them;  it  was  believed  that  they  were 
the  result  of  some  obscure  physical  reaction  to  the 
storm,  and  that  this  had  grown  upon  him  as  he  grew 
older. 

To-day  his  irritability  was  so  marked,  his  uneasi- 
ness so  much  greater  than  any  one  had  seen  it  before, 
that  the  attendant  whom  Corvet  had  sent,  a  half  hour 
earlier,  to  reserve  his  usual  table  for  him  in  the  grill 
— "  the  table  by  the  second  window  " —  had  started 
away  without  daring  to  ask  whether  the  table  was  to 
be  set  for  one  or  more.  Corvet  himself  had  corrected 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED       7 

the  omission :  "  For  two,"  he  had  shot  after  the  man. 
Now,  as  his  uneven  footsteps  carried  him  to  the  door 
of  the  grill,  and  he  went  in,  the  steward,  who  had 
started  forward  at  sight  of  him,  suddenly  stopped,  and 
the  waiter  assigned  to  his  table  stood  nervously  un- 
certain, not  knowing  whether  to  give  his  customary 
greeting  or  to  efface  himself  as  much  as  possible. 

The  tables,  at  this  hour,  were  all  unoccupied.  Cor- 
vet  crossed  to  the  one  he  had  reserved  and  sat  down ; 
he  turned  immediately  to  the  window  at  his  side  and 
scraped  on  it  a  little  clear  opening  through  which  he 
could  see  the  storm  outside.  Ten  minutes  later  he 
looked  up  sharply  but  did  not  rise,  as  the  man  he  had 
been  awaiting  —  Spearman,  the  younger  of  his  two 
partners  —  came  in. 

Spearman's  first  words,  audible  through  the  big 
room,  made  plain  that  he  was  late  to  an  appointment 
asked  by  Corvet;  his  acknowledgment  of  this  took  the 
form  of  an  apology,  but  one  which,  in  tone  different 
from  Spearman's  usual  bluff,  hearty  manner,  seemed 
almost  contemptuous.  He  seated  himself,  his  big, 
powerful  hands  clasped  on  the  table,  his  gray  eyes 
studying  Corvet  closely.  As  Corvet,  without  acknowl- 
ing  the  apology,  took  the  pad  and  began  to  write  an 
order  for  both,  Spearman  interfered;  he  had  already 
lunched ;  he  would  take  only  a  cigar.  The  waiter  took 
the  order  and  went  away. 

When  he  returned,  the  two  men  were  obviously  in 
bitter  quarrel.  Corvet's  tone,  low  pitched  but  vio- 
lent, sounded  steadily  in  the  room,  though  his  words 
were  inaudible.  The  waiter,  as  he  set  the  food  upon 
the  table,  felt  relief  that  Corvet's  outburst  had  fallen 
on  other  shoulders  than  his. 


8  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

It  had  fallen,  in  fact,  upon  the  shoulders  best  able 
to  bear  it.  Spearman  —  still  called,  though  he  was 
slightly  over  forty  now,  "  young "  Spearman  —  was 
the  power  in  the  great  ship-owning  company  of  Cor- 
vet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman.  Corvet  had  withdrawn, 
during  recent  years,  almost  entirely  from  active  life; 
some  said  the  sorrow  and  mortification  of  his  wife's 
leaving  him  had  made  him  choose  more  and  more  the 
seclusion  of  his  library  in  the  big  lonely  house  on  the 
North  Shore,  and  had  given  Spearman  the  chance  to 
rise;  but  those  most  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
affairs  of  the  great  ship-owning  firm  maintained  that 
Spearman's  rise  had  not  been  granted  him  but  had 
been  forced  by  Spearman  himself.  In  any  case,  Spear- 
man was  not  the  one  to  accept  Corvet's  irritation 
meekly. 

For  nearly  an  hour,  the  quarrel  continued  with  in- 
termitted truces  of  silence.  The  waiter,  listening,  as 
waiters  always  do,  caught  at  times  single  sentences. 

"  You  have  had  that  idea  for  some  time?  "  he  heard 
from  Corvet. 

"  We  have  had  an  understanding  for  more  than  a 
month." 

"How  definite?" 

Spearman's  answer  was  not  audible,  but  it  more 
intensely  agitated  Corvet;  his  lips  set;  a  hand  which 
held  his  fork  clasped  and  unclasped  nervously;  he 
dropped  his  fork  and,  after  that,  made  no  pretense  of 
eating. 

The  waiter,  following  this,  caught  only  single  words. 
"Sherrill" — that,  of  course,  was  the  other  partner. 
"  Constance "— that  was  Sherrill's  daughter.  The 
other  names  he  heard  were  names  of  ships.  But,  as 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED        & 

the  quarrel  went  on,  the  manners  of  the  two  men 
changed;  Spearman,  who  at  first  had  been  assailed  by 
Corvet,  now  was  assailing  him.  Corvet  sat  back  in 
his  seat,  while  Spearman  pulled  at  his  cigar  and  now 
and  then  took  it  from  his  lips  and  gestured  with  it 
between  his  fingers,  as  he  jerked  some  ejaculation 
across  the  table. 

Corvet  leaned  over  to  the  frosted  window,  as  he  had 
done  when  alone,  and  looked  out.  Spearman  shot  a 
comment  which  made  Corvet  wince  and  draw  back  from 
the  window ;  then  Spearman  rose.  He  delayed,  stand- 
ing, to  light  another  cigar  deliberately  and  with  stud- 
ied slowness.  Corvet  looked  up  at  him  once  and  asked 
a  question,  to  which  Spearman  replied  with  a  snap  of 
the  burnt  match  down  on  the  table ;  he  turned  abruptly 
and  strode  from  the  room.  Corvet  sat  motionless. 

The  revulsion  to  self-control,  sometimes  even  to  apol- 
ogy, which  ordinarily  followed  Corvet's  bursts  of  irri- 
tation had  not  come  to  him ;  his  agitation  plainly  had 
increased.  He  pushed  from  him  his  uneaten  luncheon 
and  got  up  slowly.  He  went  out  to  the  coat  room, 
where  the  attendant  handed  him  his  coat  and  hat.  He 
hung  the  coat  upon  his  arm.  The  doorman,  ac- 
quainted with  him  for  many  years,  ventured  to  suggest 
a  cab.  Corvet,  staring  strangely  at  him,  shook  his 
head. 

"  At  least,  sir,"  the  man  urged,  "  put  on  your  coat." 

Corvet  ignored  him. 

He  winced  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  smarting, 
blinding  swirl  of  sleet,  but  his  shrinking  was  not  phys- 
ical ;  it  was  mental,  the  unconscious  reaction  to  some 
thought  the  storm  called  up.  The  hour  was  barely 
four  o'clock,  but  so  dark  was  it  with  the  storm  that  the 


10  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

shop  windows  were  lit;  motorcars,  slipping  and  skid- 
ding up  the  broad  boulevard,  with  headlights  burning; 
kept  their  signals  clattering  constantly  to  warn  other 
drivers  blinded  by  the  snow.  The  sleet-swept  side- 
walks were  almost  deserted;  here  or  there,  before  a 
hotel  or  one  of  the  shops,  a  limousine  came  to  the  curb, 
and  the  passengers  dashed  swiftly  across  the  walk  to 
shelter. 

Corvet,  still  carrying  his  coat  upon  his  arm,  turned 
northward  along  Michigan  Avenue,  facing  into  the 
gale.  The  sleet  beat  upon  his  face  and  lodged  in  the 
folds  of  his  clothing  without  his  heeding  it. 

Suddenly  he  aroused.  "  One  —  two  —  three  — 
four ! "  he  counted  the  long,  booming  blasts  of  a  steam 
whistle.  A  steamer  out  on  that  snow-shrouded  lake 
was  in  distress.  The  sound  ceased,  and  the  gale  bore 
in  only  the  ordinary  storm  and  fog  signals.  Corvet 
recognized  the  foghorn  at  the  lighthouse  at  the  end  of 
the  government  pier;  the  light,  he  knew,  was  turning 
white,  red,  white,  red,  white  behind  the  curtain  of  sleet ; 
other  steam  vessels,  not  in  distress,  blew  their  blasts ; 
the  long  four  of  the  steamer  calling  for  help  cut  in 
again. 

Corvet  stopped,  drew  up  his  shoulders,  and  stood 
staring  out  toward  the  lake,  as  the  signal  blasts  of  dis- 
tress boomed  and  boomed  again.  Color  came  now  into 
his  pale  cheeks  for  an  instant.  A  siren  swelled  and 
shrieked,  died  away  wailing,  shrieked  louder  and 
stopped;  the  four  blasts  blew  again,  and  the  siren 
wailed  in  answer. 

A  door  opened  behind  Corvet;  warm  air  rushed  out, 
laden  with  sweet,  heavy  odors  —  chocolate  and  candy ; 
girls'  laughter,  exaggerated  exclamations,  laughter 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED      11' 

again  came  with  it;  and  two  girls  holding  their  muffs 
before  their  faces  passed  by. 

"  See  you  to-night,  dear." 

"  Yes ;  I'll  be  there  —  if  he  comes." 

"Oh,  he'll  come!" 

They  ran  to  different  limousines,  scurried  in,  and  the 
cars  swept  off. 

Corvet  turned  about  to  the  tearoom  from  which  they 
had  come;  he  could  see,  as  the  door  opened  again,  a 
dozen  tables  with  their  white  cloths,  shining  silver,  and 
steaming  little  porcelain  pots ;  twenty  or  thirty  girls 
and  young  women  were  refreshing  themselves,  pleas- 
antly, after  shopping  or  fittings  or  a  concert ;  a  few 
young  men  were  sipping  chocolate  with  them.  The  blast 
of  the  distress  signal,  the  scream  of  the  siren,  must  have 
come  to  them  when  the  door  was  opened;  but,  if  they 
heard  it  at  all,  they  gave  it  no  attention;  the  clatter 
and  laughter  and  sipping  of  chocolate  and  tea  was  in- 
terrupted only  by  those  who  reached  quickly  for  a 
shopping  list  or  some  filmy  possession  threatened  by 
the  draft.  They  were  as  oblivious  to  the  lake  in  front 
of  their  windows,  to  the  ship  struggling  for  life  in  the 
storm,  as  though  the  snow  were  a  screen  which  shut 
them  into  a  distant  world. 

To  Corvet,  a  lake  man  for  forty  years,  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  this.  Twenty  miles,  from  north  to 
south,  the  city  —  its  business  blocks,  its  hotels  and  res- 
taurants, its  homes  —  faced  the  water  and,  except 
where  the  piers  formed  the  harbor,  all  unprotected 
water,  an  open  sea  where  in  times  of  storm  ships  sank 
and  grounded,  men  fought  for  their  lives  against  the 
elements  and,  losing,  drowned  and  died;  and  Corvet 
was  well  aware  that  likely  enough  none  of  those  in  that 


12  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

tearoom  or  in  that  whole  building  knew  what  four  long 
blasts  meant  when  they  were  blown  as  they  were  now, 
or  what  the  siren  meant  that  answered.  But  now,  as 
he  listened  to  the  blasts  which  seemed  to  have  grown 
more  desperate,  this  profoundly  affected  Corvet.  He 
moved  once  to  stop  one  of  the  couples  coming  from  the 
tearoom.  They  hesitated,  as  he  stared  at  them;  then, 
when  they  had  passed  him,  they  glanced  back.  Corvet 
shook  himself  together  and  went  on. 

He  continued  to  go  north.  He  had  not  seemed,  in 
the  beginning,  to  have  made  conscious  choice  of  this 
direction ;  but  now  he  was  following  it  purposely.  He 
stopped  once  at  a  shop  which  sold  men's  things  to  make 
a  telephone  call.  He  asked  for  Miss  Sherrill  when  the 
number  answered;  but  he  did  not  wish  to  speak  to 
her,  he  said;  he  wanted  merely  to  be  sure  she  would  be 
there  if  he  stopped  in  to  see  her  in  half  an  hour. 
Then  —  north  again.  He  crossed  the  bridge.  Now, 
fifteen  minutes  later,  he  came  in  sight  of  the  lake  once 
more. 

.Great  houses,  the  Sherrill  house  among  them,  here 
face  the  Drive,  the  bridle  path,  the  strip  of  park,  and 
the  wide  stone  esplanade  which  edges  the  lake.  Corvet 
crossed  to  this  esplanade.  It  was  an  ice-bank  now ; 
hummocks  of  snow  and  ice  higher  than  a  man's  head 
shut  off  view  of  the  floes  tossing  and  crashing  as  far 
out  as  the  blizzard  let  one  see;  but,  dislodged  and 
shaken  by  the  buffeting  of  the  floe,  they  let  the  gray 
water  swell  up  from  underneath  and  wash  around  his 
feet  as  he  went  on.  He  did  not  stop  at  the  Sherrill 
house  or  look  toward  it,  but  went  on  fully  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  beyond  it;  then  he  came  back,  and  with  an 
oddly  strained  and  queer  expression  and  attitude,  he 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED      13 

stood  staring  out  into  the  lake.  He  could  not  hear 
the  distress  signals  now. 

Suddenly  he  turned.  Constance  Sherrill,  seeing  him 
from  a  window  of  her  home,  had  caught  a  cape  about 
her  and  run  out  to  him. 

"  Uncle  Benny ! "  she  hailed  him  with  the  affectionate 
name  she  had  used  with  her  father's  partner  since  she 
was  a  baby.  "Uncle  Benny,  aren't  you  coming  in?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  vaguely.  "Yes,  of  course."  He 
made  no  move  but  remained  staring  at  her.  "  Con- 
nie !  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  with  strange  reproach  to 
himself  in  his  tone.  "  Connie !  Dear  little  Connie !  " 

"  Why?  "  she  asked  him.  "  Uncle  Benny,  what's  the 
matter?  " 

He  seemed  to  catch  himself  together.  "  There  was 
a  ship  out  there  in  trouble,"  he  said  in  a  quite  different 
tone.  "  They  aren't  blowing  any  more ;  are  they  all 
right?" 

"  It  was  one  of  the  M  and  D  boats  —  the  Louisiana, 
they  told  me.  She  went  by  here  blowing  for  help,  and 
I  called  up  the  office  to  find  out.  A  tug  and  one  other 
of  their  line  got  out  to  her ;  she  had  started  a  cylinder 
head  bucking  the  ice  and  was  taking  in  a  little  water. 
Uncle  Benny,  you  must  put  on  your  coat." 

She  brushed  the  sleet  from  his  shoulders  and  collar, 
and  held  the  coat  for  him ;  he  put  it  on  obediently. 

"  Has  Spearman  been  here  to-day  ?  "  he  asked,  not 
looking  at  her. 

"To  see  father?" 

"  No ;  to  see  you." 

"  No." 

He  seized  her  wrist.  "  Don't  see  him,  when  he 
comes  !  "  he  commanded. 


14  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"Uncle  Benny!" 

"Don't  see  him!"  Corvet  repeated.  "He's  asked 
you  to  marry  him,  hasn't  he?  " 

Connie  could  hot  refuse  the  answer.     "  Yes." 

"And  you?" 

"  Why  —  why,  Uncle  Benny,  I  haven't  answered  him 
yet." 

"  Then  don't  —  don't;  do  you  understand,  Connie?  " 

She  hesitated,  frightened  for  him.  "I'll  — I'll  tell 
you  before  I  see  him,  if  you  want  me  to,  Uncle  Benny," 
she  granted. 

"  But  if  you  shouldn't  be  able  to  tell  me  then,  Con- 
nie ;  if  you  shouldn't  —  want  to  then  ?  "  The  humility 
of  his  look  perplexed  her ;  if  he  had  been  any  other  man 
—  any  man  except  Uncle  Benny  —  she  would  have 
thought  some  shameful  and  terrifying  threat  hung  over 
him;  but  he  broke  off  sharply.  "  I  must  go  home,"  he 
said  uncertainly.  "  I  must  go  home ;  then  I'll  come 
back.  Connie,  you  won't  give  him  an  answer  till  I 
come  back,  wfll  you?  " 

"No."  He  got  her  promise,  half  frightened,  half 
bewildered;  then  he  turned  at  once  and  went  swiftly 
away  from  her. 

She  ran  back  to  the  door  of  her  father's  house. 
From  there  she  saw  him  reach  the  corner  and  turn  west 
to  go  to  Astor  Street.  He  was  walking  rapidly  and 
did  not  hesitate. 

The  trite  truism  which  relates  the  inability  of  human 
beings  to  know  the  future,  has  a  counterpart  not  so 
often  mentioned:  We  do  not  always  know  our  own 
past  until  the  future  has  made  plain  what  has  hap- 
pened to  us.  Constance  Sherrill,  at  the  close  of  this, 
the  most  important  day  in  her  life,  did  not  know  at  all 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED      15 

that  it  had  been  important  to  her.  All  she  felt  was  a 
perplexed,  but  indefinite  uneasiness  about  Uncle  Benny. 
How  strangely  he  had  acted!  Her  uneasiness  in- 
creased when  the  afternoon  and  evening  passed  without 
his  coming  back  to  see  her  as  he  had  promised,  but  she 
reflected  he  had  not  set  any  definite  time  when  she  was 
to  expect  him.  During  the  night  her  anxiety  grew  still 
greater ;  and  in  the  morning  she  called  his  house  up  on 
the  telephone,  but  the  call  was  unanswered.  An  hour 
later,  she  called  again ;  still  getting  no  result,  she  called 
her  father  at  his  office,  and  told  him  of  her  anxiety 
about  Uncle  Benny,  but  without  repeating  what  Uncle 
Benny  had  said  to  her  or  the  promise  she  had  made  to 
him.  Her  father  made  light  of  her  fears;  Uncle 
Benny,  he  reminded  her,  often  acted  queerly  in  bad 
weather.  Only  partly  reassured,  she  called  Uncle 
Benny's  house  several  more  times  during  the  morning, 
but  still  got  no  reply;  and  after  luncheon  she  called 
her  father  again,  to  tell  him  that  she  had  resolved  to 
get  some  one  to  go  over  to  the  house  with  her. 

Her  father,  to  her  surprise,  forbade  this  rather 
sharply;  his  voice,  she  realized,  was  agitated  and  ex- 
cited, and  she  asked  him  the  reason;  but  instead  of 
answering  her,  he  made  her  repeat  to  him  her  conver- 
sation of  the  afternoon  before  with  Uncle  Benny,  and 
now  he  questioned  her  closely  about  it.  But  when  she, 
in  her  turn,  tried  to  question  him,  he  merely  put  her  off 
and  told  her  not  to  worry.  Later,  when  she  called  him 
again,  resolved  to  make  him  tell  her  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, he  had  left  the  office. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  as  dusk  was  drawing  into 
dark,  she  stood  at  the  window,  watching  the  storm, 
which  still  continued,  with  one  of  those  delusive  hopes 


16  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

which  come  during  anxiety  that,  because  it  was  the 
time  of  day  at  which  she  had  seen  Uncle  Benny  walking 
by  the  lake  the  day  before,  she  might  see  him  there 
again,  when  she  saw  her  father's  motor  approaching. 
It  was  coming  from  the  north,  not  from  the  south  as 
it  would  have  been  if  he  was  coming  from  his  office  or 
his  club,  and  it  had  turned  into  the  drive  from  the  west. 
She  knew,  therefore,  that  he  was  coming  from  Uncle 
Benny's  house,  and,  as  the  car  swerved  and  wheeled  in, 
she  ran  out  into  the  hall  to  meet  him. 

He  came  in  without  taking  off  hat  or  coat ;  she  could 
see  that  he  was  perturbed,  greatly  agitated. 

"What  is  it,  father?"  she  demanded.  "What  has 
happened?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  dear." 

"  It  is  something  —  something  that  has  happened  to 
Uncle  Benny?" 

"I *  am  afraid  so,  dear  —  yes.  But  I  do  not 
know  what  it  is  that  has  happened,  or  I  would  tell 
you." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  into  a  room 
opening  off  the  hall  —  his  study.  He  made  her  repeat 
again  to  him  the  conversation  she  had  had  with  Uncle 
Benny  and  tell  him  how  he  had  acted ;  but  she  saw  that 
what  she  told  him  did  not  help  him.  He  seemed  to 
consider  it  carefully,  but  in  the  end  to  discard  or  dis- 
regard it. 

Then  he  drew  her  toward  him. 

"  Tell  me,  little  daughter.  You  have  been  a  great 
deal  with  Uncle  Benny  and  have  talked  with  him;  I 
want  you  to  think  carefully.  Did  you  ever  hear  him 
speak  of  any  one  called  Alan  Conrad?  " 

She  thought.     "  No,  father." 


MAN  WHOM  THE  STORM  HAUNTED      17 

"  No  reference  ever  made  by  him  at  all  to  either 
name  —  Alan  or  Conrad?  " 

"  No,  father." 

"  No  reference  either  to  any  one  living  in  Kansas,  or 
to  a  town  there  called  Blue  Rapids?  " 

"  No,  father.     Who  is  Alan  Conrad?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  dear.  I  never  heard  the  name  until 
to-day,  and  Henry  Spearman  had  never  heard  it.  But 
it  appears  to  be  intimately  connected  in  some  way  with 
what  was  troubling  Uncle  Benny  yesterday.  He  wrote 
a  letter  yesterday  to  Alan  Conrad  in  Blue  Rapids  and 
mailed  it  himself;  and  afterward  he  tried  to  get  it 
back,  but  it  already  had  been  taken  up  and  was  on  its 
way.  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn  anything  more 
about  the  letter  than  that.  He  seems  to  have  been 
excited  and  troubled  all  day ;  he  talked  queerly  to  you, 
and  he  quarreled  with  Henry,  but  apparently  not  about 
anything  of  importance.  And  to-day  that  name,  Alan 
Conrad,  came  to  me  hi  quite  another  way,  in  a  way 
which  makes  it  certain  that  it  is  closely  connected  with 
whatever  has  happened  to  Uncle  Benny.  You  are 
quite  sure  you  never  heard  him  mention  it,  dear?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  father." 

He  released  her  and,  still  in  his  hat  and  coat,  went 
swiftly  up  the  stairs.  She  ran  after  him  and  found  him 
standing  before  a  highboy  in  his  dressing  room.  He 
unlocked  a  drawer  in  the  highboy,  and  from  within  the 
drawer  he  took  a  key.  Then,  still  disregarding  her,  he 
hurried  back  down-stairs. 

As  she  followed  him,  she  caught  up  a  wrap  and  pulled 
it  around  her.  He  had  told  the  motor,  she  realized  now, 
to  wait ;  but  as  he  reached  the  door,  he  turned  and 
stopped  her. 


18  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  not  come  with  me,  little 
daughter.  I  do  not  know  at  all  what  it  is  that  has  hap- 
pened —  I  will  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  find  out." 

The  finality  in  his  tone  stopped  her  from  argument. 
As  the  house  door  and  then  the  door  of  the  limousine 
closed  after  him,  she  went  back  toward  the  window, 
slowly  taking  off  the  wrap.  She  saw  the  motor  shoot 
swiftly  out  upon  the  drive,  turn  northward  in  the  way 
that  it  had  come,  and  then  turn  again,  and  disappear. 
She  could  only  stand  and  watch  for  it  to  come  back  and 
listen  for  the  'phone;  for  the  moment  she  found  it 
difficult  to  think.  Something  had  happened  to  Uncle 
Benny,  something  terrible,  dreadful  for  those  who  loved 
him;  that  was  plain,  though  only  the  fact  and  not  its 
nature  was  known  to  her  or  to  her  father;  and  that 
something  was  connected  —  intimately  connected,  her 
father  had  said  —  with  a  name  which  no  one  who  knew 
Uncle  Benny,  ever  had  heard  before,  with  the  name  of 
Alan  Conrad  of  Blue  Rapids,  Kansas.  Who  was  this 
Alan  Conrad,  and  what  could  his  connection  be  with 
Uncle  Benny  so  to  precipitate  disaster  upon  him? 


CHAPTER  II 

WHO    IS    ALAN    CONKAD? 

THE  recipient  of  the  letter  which  Benjamin  Corvet 
had  written  and  later  so  excitedly  attempted  to 
recover,  was  asking  himself  a  question  which  was 
almost  the  same  as  the  question  which  Constance  Sher- 
rill  had  asked.  He  was,  the  second  morning  later, 
waiting  for  the  first  of  the  two  daily  eastbound  trains 
which  stopped  at  the  little  Kansas  town  of  Blue  Rapids 
which  he  called  home.  As  long  as  he  could  look  back 
into  his  life,  the  question,  who  is  this  person  they  call 
Alan  Conrad,  and  what  am  I  to  the  man  who  writes 
from  Chicago,  had  been  the  paramount  enigma  of  ex- 
istence for  him.  Since  he  was  now  twenty-three,  as 
nearly  as  he  had  been  able  to  approximate  it,  and  as 
distinct  recollection  of  isolated,  extraordinary  events 
went  back  to  the  time  when  he  was  five,  it  was  quite 
eighteen  years  since  he  had  first  noticed  the  question 
put  to  the  people  who  had  him  in  charge :  "  So  this  is 
little  Alan  Conrad.  Who  is  he?  " 

Undoubtedly  the  question  had  been  asked  in  his  pres- 
ence before;  certainly  it  was  asked  many  times  after- 
wards; but  it  was  since  that  day  when,  on  his  noticing 
the  absence  of  a  birthday  of  his  own,  they  had  told 
him  he  was  five,  that  he  connected  the  evasion  of  the 
answer  with  the  difference  between  himself  and  the 
other  children  he  saw,  and  particularly  between  him- 


20  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

self  and  the  boy  and  girl  in  the  same  house  with  him. 
When  visitors  came  from  somewhere  far  off,  no  one  of 
them  ever  looked  surprised  at  seeing  the  other  children 
or  asked  about  them.  Always,  when  some  one  came,  it 
was,  "  So  this  is  little  Jim !  "  and  "  This  is  Betty ;  she's 
more  of  a  Welton  every  day !  "  Then,  each  time  with 
that  change  in  the  voice  and  in  the  look  of  the  eyes 
and  in  the  feel  of  the  arms  about  him  —  for  though 
Alan  could  not  feel  how  the  arms  hugged  Jim  and 
Betty,  he  knew  that  for  him  it  was  quite  differ- 
ent — "  So  this  is  Alan  Conrad,"  or,  "  So  this  is  the 
child!"  or,  "This,  I  suppose,  is  the  boy  I've  heard 
about!" 

However,  there  was  a  quite  definite,  if  puzzling,  ad- 
vantage at  times  in  being  Alan  Conrad.  Following  the 
arrival  of  certain  letters,  which  were  distinguished 
from  most  others  arriving  at  the  house  by  having  no 
ink  writing  on  the  envelope  but  just  a  sort  of  purple 
or  black  printing  like  newspapers,  Alan  invariably  re- 
ceived a  dollar  to  spend  just  as  he  liked.  To  be  sure, 
unless  "papa"  took  him  to  town,  there  was  nothing 
for  him  to  spend  it  upon ;  so,  likely  enough,  it  went  into 
the  square  iron  bank,  of  which  the  key  was  lost;  but 
quite  often  he  did  spend  it  according  to  plans  agreed 
upon  among  all  his  friends  and,  in  memory  of  these 
occasions  and  in  anticipation  of  the  next,  "  Alan's  dol- 
lar "  became  a  community  institution  among  the  chil- 
dren. 

But  exhilarating  and  wonderful  as  it  was  to  be  able 
of  one's  self  to  take  three  friends  to  the  circus,  or  to  be 
the  purveyor  of  twenty  whole  packages  —  not  sticks  — 
of  gum,  yet  the  dollar  really  made  only  more  plain  the 
boy's  difference.  The  regularity  and  certainty  of  its 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  21 

arrival  as  Alan's  share  of  some  larger  sum  of  money 
which  came  to  "  papa  "  in  the  letter,  never  served  to 
make  the  event  ordinary  or  accepted. 

"  Who  gives  it  to  you,  Alan  ?  "  was  a  question  more 
often  asked,  as  time  Vent  on.  The  only  answer  Alan 
could  give  was,  "  It  comes  from  Chicago."  The  post- 
mark on  the  envelope,  Alan  noticed,  was  always  Chi- 
cago ;  that  was  all  he  ever  could  find  out  about  his 
dollar.  He  was  about  ten  years  old  when,  for  a  reason 
as  inexplicable  as  the  dollar's  coming,  the  letters  with 
the  typewritten  addresses  and  the  enclosed  money 
ceased. 

Except  for  the  loss  of  the  dollar  at  the  end  of  every 
second  month  —  a  loss  much  discussed  by  all  the  chil- 
dren and  not  accepted  as  permanent  till  more  than  two 
years  had  passed  —  Alan  felt  no  immediate  results  from 
the  cessation  of  the  letters  from  Chicago ;  and  when  the 
first  effects  appeared,  Jim  and  Betty  felt  them  quite 
as  much  as  he.  Papa  and  mamma  felt  them,  too,  when 
the  farm  had  to  be  given  up,  and  the  family  moved  to 
the  town,  and  papa  went  to  work  in  the  woolen  mill 
beside  the  river. 

Papa  and  mamma,  at  first  surprised  and  dismayed  by 
the  stopping  of  the  letters,  still  clung  to  the  hope  of 
the  familiar,  typewritten  addressed  envelope  appearing 
again ;  but  when,  after  two  years,  no  more  money  came, 
resentment  which  had  been  steadily  growing  against  the 
person  who  had  sent  the  money  began  to  turn  against 
Alan ;  and  his  "  parents  "  told  him  all  they  knew  about 
him. 

In  1896  they  had  noticed  an  advertisement  for  per- 
sons to  care  for  a  child;  they  had  answered  it  to  the 
office  of  the  newspaper  which  printed  it.  In  response 


22  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

to  their  letter  a  man  called  upon  them  and,  after  seeing 
them  and  going  around  to  see  their  friends,  had  made 
arrangements  with  them  to  take  a  boy  of  three,  who  was 
in  good  health  and  came  of  good  people.  He  paid  in 
advance  board  for  a  year  and  agreed  to  send  a  certain 
amount  every  two  months  after  that  time.  The  man 
brought  the  boy,  whom  he  called  Alan  Conrad,  and  left 
him.  For  seven  years  the  money  agreed  upon  came ; 
now  it  had  ceased,  and  papa  had  no  way  of  finding  the 
man  • —  the  name  given  by  him  appeared  to  be  fictitious, 
and  he  had  left  no  address  except  "general  delivery, 
Chicago  " —  Papa  knew  nothing  more  than  that.  He 
had  advertised  in  the  Chicago  papers  after  the  money 
stopped  coming,  and  he  had  communicated  with  every 
one  named  Conrad  in  or  near  Chicago,  but  he  had 
learned  nothing.  Thus,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  Alan 
definitely  knew  that  what  he  already  had  guessed  —  the 
fact  that  he  belonged  somewhere  else  than  in  the  little 
brown  house  —  was  all  that  any  one  there  could  tell  him ; 
and  the  knowledge  gave  persistence  to  many  internal 
questionings.  Where  did  he  belong?  Who  was  he? 
Who  was  the  man  who  had  brought  him  here?  Had 
the  money  ceased  coming  because  the  person  who  sent 
it  was  dead?  In  that  case,  connection  of  Alan  with  the 
place  where  he  belonged  was  permanently  broken.  Or 
would  some  other  communication  from  that  source  reach 
him  some  time  —  if  not  money,  then  something  else? 
Would  he  be  sent  for  some  day?  He  did  not  resent 
"  papa  and  mamma's "  new  attitude  of  benefactors 
toward  him ;  instead,  loving  them  both  because  he  had 
no  one  else  to  love,  he  sympathized  with  it.  They  had 
struggled  hard  to  keep  the  farm.  They  had  ambitions 
for  Jim ;  they  were  scrimping  and  sparing  now  so  that 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  2z> 

Jim  could  go  to  college,  and  whatever  was  given  to  Alan 
was  taken  away  from  Jim  and  diminished  by  just  that 
much  liis  opportunity. 

But  when  Alan  asked  papa  to  get  him  a  job  in  the 
woolen  mill  at  the  other  side  of  town  where  papa  him- 
self worked  in  some  humble  and  indefinite  capacity,  the 
request  was  refused.  Thus,  externally  at  least,  Alan's 
learning  the  little  that  was  known  about  himself  made 
no  change  in  his  way  of  living;  he  went,  as  did  Jim,  to 
the  town  school,  which  combined  grammar  and  high 
schools  under  one  roof ;  and,  as  he  grew  older,  he  clerked 
—  as  Jim  also  did  —  in  one  of  the  town  stores  during 
vacations  and  in  the  evenings ;  the  only  difference  was 
this :  that  Jim's  money,  so  earned,  was  his  own,  but 
Alan  carried  his  home  as  part  payment  of  those  arrears 
which  had  mounted  up  against  him  since  the  letters 
ceased  coming.  At  seventeen,  having  finished  high 
school,  he  was  clerking  officially  in  Merrill's  general 
store,  when  the  next  letter  came. 

It  was  addressed  this  time  not  to  papa,  but  to  Alan 
Conrad.  He  seized  it,  tore  it  open,  and  a  bank  draft 
for  fifteen  hundred  dollars  fell  out.  There  was  no  letter 
with  the  enclosure,  no  word  of  communication;  just  the 
draft  to  the  order  of  Alan  Conrad.  Alan  wrote  the 
Chicago  bank  by  which  the  draft  had  been  issued ;  their 
reply  showed  that  the  draft  had  been  purchased  with 
currency,  so  there  was  no  record  of  the  identity  of  the 
person  who  had  sent  it.  More  than  that  amount  was 
due  for  arrears  for  the  seven  years  during  which  no 
money  was  sent,  even  when  the  total  which  Alan  had 
earned  was  deducted.  So  Alan  merely  endorsed  the 
draft  over  to  "  father  " ;  and  that  fall  Jim  went  to  col- 
lege. But,  when  Jim  discovered  that  it  not  only  was 


24  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

possible  but  planned  at  the  university  for  a  boy  to 
work  his  way  through,  Alan  went  also. 

Four  wonderful  years  followed.  The  family  of  a 
professor  of  physics,  with  whom  he  was  brought  in 
contact  by  his  work  outside  of  college,  liked  him  and 
"  took  him  up."  He  lodged  finally  in  their  house  and 
became  one  of  them.  In  companionship  with  these  edu- 
cated people,  ideas  and  manners  came  to  him  which  he 
could  not  have  acquired  at  home ;  athletics  straightened 
and  added  bearing  to  his  muscular,  well-formed  body ; 
his  pleasant,  strong  young  face  acquired  self-reliance 
and  self-control.  Life  became  filled  with  possibilities 
for  himself  which  it  had  never  held  before. 

But  on  his  day  of  graduation  he  had  to  put  away  the 
enterprises  he  had  planned  and  the  dreams  he  dreamed 
and,  conscious  that  his  debt  to  father  and  mother  still 
remained  unpaid,  he  had  returned  to  care  for  them ; 
for  father's  health  had  failed  and  Jim  who  had 
opened  a  law  office  in  Kansas  City,  could  do  nothing  to 
help. 

No  more  money  had  followed  the  draft  from  Chicago 
and  there  had  been  no  communication  of  any  kind ;  but 
the  receipt  of  so  considerable  a  sum  had  revived  and 
intensified  all  Alan's  speculations  about  himself.  The 
vague  expectation  of  his  childhood  that  sometime,  in 
some  way,  he  would  be  "  sent  for  "  had  grown  during 
the  last  six  years  to  a  definite  belief.  And  now  —  on 
the  afternoon  before  —  the  summons  had  come. 

This  time,  as  he  tore  open  the  envelope,  he  saw  that 
besides  a  check,  there  was  writing  within  —  an  uneven 
and  nervous-looking  but  plainly  legible  communication 
in  longhand.  The  letter  made  no  explanation.  It  told 
him,  rather  than  asked  him,  to  come  to  Chicago,  gave 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  25 

minute  instructions  for  the  journey,  and  advised  him 
to  telegraph  when  he  started.  The  check  was  for  a 
hundred  dollars  to  pay  his  expenses.  Check  and  letter 
were  signed  by  a  name  completely  strange  to  him. 

He  was  a  distinctly  attractive  looking  lad,  as  he 
stood  now  on  the  station  platform  of  the  little  town, 
while  the  eastbound  train  rumbled  in,  and  he  fingered  in 
his  pocket  the  letter  from  Chicago. 

As  the  train  came  to  a  stop,  he  pushed  his  suitcase  up 
on  to  a  car  platform  and  stood  on  the  bottom  step,  look- 
ing back  at  the  little  town  standing  away  from  its  rail- 
road station  among  brown,  treeless  hills,  now  scantily 
snow-covered  —  the  town  which  was  the  only  home  he 
ever  consciously  had  known.  His  eyes  dampened  and 
he  choked,  as  he  looked  at  it  and  at  the  people  on  the 
station  platform  —  the  station-master,  the  drayman, 
the  man  from  the  post  office  who  would  receive  the  mail 
bag,  people  who  called  him  by  his  first  name,  as  he  called 
them  by  theirs.  He  did  not  doubt  at  all  that  he  would 
see  the  town  and  them  again.  The  question  was  what 
he  would  be  when  he  did  see  them.  They  and  it  would 
not  be  changed,  but  he  would.  As  the  train  started, 
he  picked  up  the  suitcase  and  carried  it  into  the  second 
day-coach. 

Finding  a  seat,  at  once  he  took  the  letter  from  his 
pocket  and  for  the  dozenth  time  reread  it.  Was  Corvet 
a  relative?  Was  he  the  man  who  had  sent  the  remit- 
tances when  Alan  was  a  little  boy,  and  the  one  who  later 
had  sent  the  fifteen  hundred  dollars?  Or  was  he  merely 
a  go-between,  perhaps  a  lawyer?  There  was  no  letter- 
head to  give  aid  in  these  speculations.  The  address  to 
which  Alan  was  to  come  was  in  Astor  Street.  He  had 
never  heard  the  name  of  the  street  before.  Was  it  a 


26  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

business  street,  Corvet's  address  in  some  great  office 
building,  perhaps? 

He  tried  by  repeating  both  names  over  and  over  to 
himself  to  arouse  any  obscure,  obliterated  childhood 
memory  he  might  have  had  of  then ;  but  the  repetition 
brought  no  result.  Memory,  when  he  stretched  it  back 
to  its  furthest,  showed  him  only  the  Kansas  prairie. 

Late  that  afternoon  he  reached  Kansas  City,  desig- 
nated in  the  letter  as  the  point  where  he  would  change 
cars.  That  night  saw  him  in  his  train  —  a  transconti- 
nental with  berths  nearly  all  made  up  and  people  sleep- 
ing behind  the  curtains.  Alan  undressed  and  got  into 
his  berth,  but  he  lay  awake  most  of  the  night,  excited 
and  expectant.  The  late  February  dawn  showed  him 
the  rolling  lands  of  Iowa  which  changed,  while  he  was  at 
breakfast  in  the  dining  car,  to  the  snow-covered  fields 
and  farms  of  northern  Illinois.  Toward  noon,  he  could 
see,  as  the  train  rounded  curves,  that  the  horizon  to  the 
east  had  taken  on  a  murky  look.  Vast,  vague,  the 
shadow  —  the  emanation  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
chimneys  —  thickened  and  grew  more  definite  as  the 
train  sped  on ;  suburban  villages  began  supplanting 
country  towns ;  stations  became  more  pretentious. 
They  passed  factories ;  then  hundreds  of  acres  of  little 
houses  of  the  factory  workers  in  long  rows ;  swiftly  the 
buildings  became  larger,  closer  together ;  he  had  a  vision 
of  miles  upon  miles  of  streets,  and  the  train  rolled  slowly 
into  a  long  trainshed  and  stopped. 

Alan,  following  the  porter  with  his  suitcase  from  the 
car,  stepped  down  among  the  crowds  hurrying  to  and 
from  the  trains.  He  was  not  confused,  he  was  only 
intensely  excited.  Acting  in  implicit  accord  with  the 
instructions  of  the  letter,  which  he  knew  by  heart,  he 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  27 

went  to  the  uniformed  attendant  and  engaged  a  taxicab 
—  itself  no  small  experience ;  there  would  be  no  one  at 
the  station  to  meet  him,  the  letter  had  said.  He  gave 
the  Astor  Street  address  and  got  into  the  cab.  Lean- 
ing forward  in  his  seat,  looking  to  the  right  and  then 
to  the  left  as  he  was  driven  through  the  city,  his  first 
sensation  was  only  disappointment. 

Except  that  it  was  larger,  with  more  and  bigger 
buildings  and  with  more  people  upon  its  streets,  Chicago 
apparently  did  not  differ  from  Kansas  City.  If  it  was, 
in  reality,  the  city  of  his  birth,  or  if  ever  he  had  seen 
these  streets  before,  they  now  aroused  no  memories  in 
him. 

It  had  begun  to  snow  again.  For  a  few  blocks  the 
taxicab  drove  north  past  more  or  less  ordinary  build- 
ings, then  turned  east  on  a  broad  boulevard  where  tall 
tile  and  brick  and  stone  structures  towered  till  their 
roofs  were  hidden  in  the  snowfall.  The  large,  light 
flakes,  falling  lazily,  were  thick  enough  so  that,  when 
the  taxicab  swung  to  the  north  again,  there  seemed  to 
Alan  only  a  great  vague  void  to  his  right.  For  the 
hundred  yards  which  he  could  view  clearly,  the  space 
appeared  to  be  a  park;  now  a  huge  granite  building, 
guarded  by  stone  lions,  went  by ;  then  more  park ;  but 
beyond  —  A  strange  stir  and  tingle,  quite  distinct 
from  the  excitement  of  the  arrival  at  the  station, 
pricked  in  Alan's  veins,  and  hastily  he  dropped  the 
window  to  his  right  and  gazed  out  again.  The  lake,  as 
he  had  known  since  his  geography  days,  lay  to  the  east 
of  Chicago;  therefore  that  void  out  there  beyond  the 
park  was  the  lake  or,  at  least,  the  harbor.  A  different 
air  seemed  to  come  from  it ;  sounds  .  .  .  Suddenly  it 
all  was  shut  off ;  the  taxicab,  swerving  a  little,  was  dash- 


28  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

ing  between  business  blocks;  a  row  of  buildings  had 
risen  again  upon  the  right ;  they  broke  abruptly  to  show 
him  a  wooden-walled  chasm  in  which  flowed  a  river  full 
of  ice  with  a  tug  dropping  its  smokestack  as  it  went 
below  the  bridge  which  the  cab  crossed;  buildings  on 
both  sides  again ;  then,  to  the  right,  a  roaring,  heaving, 
crashing  expanse. 

The  sound,  Alan  knew,  had  been  coming  to  him  as  an 
undertone  for  many  minutes ;  now  it  overwhelmed,  swal- 
lowed all  other  sound.  It  was  great,  not  loud ;  all  sound 
which  Alan  had  heard  before,  except  the  soughing  of 
the  wind  over  his  prairies,  came  from  one  point;  even 
the  monstrous  city  murmur  was  centered  in  comparison 
with  this.  Alan  could  see  only  a  few  hundred  yards  out 
over  the  water  as  the  taxicab  ran  along  the  lake  drive, 
but  what  was  before  him  was  the  surf  of  a  sea ;  that  con- 
stant, never  diminishing,  never  increasing  roar  came 
from  far  beyond  the  shore ;  the  surge  and  rise  and  fall 
and  surge  again  were  of  a  sea  in  motion.  Floes  floated, 
tossed  up,  tumbled,  broke,  and  rose  again  with  the  rush 
of  the  surf;  spray  flew  up  between  the  floes;  geysers 
spurted  high  into  the  air  as  the  pressure  of  the  water, 
bearing  up  against  the  ice,  burst  between  two  great  ice- 
cakes  before  the  waves  cracked  them  and  tumbled  them 
over.  And  all  was  without  wind ;  over  the  lake,  as  over 
the  land,  the  soft  snowflakes  lazily  floated  down, 
scarcely  stirred  by  the  slightest  breeze;  that  roar  was 
the  voice  of  the  water,  that  awful  power  its  own. 

Alan  choked  and  gasped  for  breath,  his  pulses  pound- 
ing in  his  throat ;  he  had  snatched  off  his  hat  and,  lean- 
ing out  of  the  window  sucked  the  lake  air  into  his  lungs. 
There  had  been  nothing  to  make  him  expect  this  over- 
whelming crush  of  feeling.  The  lake  —  he  had  thought 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  29 

of  it,  of  course,  as  a  great  body  of  water,  an  interest- 
ing sight  for  a  prairie  boy  to  see;  that  was  all.  No 
physical  experience  in  all  his  memory  had  affected  him 
like  this ;  and  it  was  without  warning ;  the  strange  thing 
that  had  stirred  within  him  as  the  car  brought  him  to 
the  drive  down-town  was  strengthened  now  a  thousand- 
fold ;  it  amazed,  half  frightened,  half  dizzied  him.  Now, 
as  the  motor  suddenly  swung  around  a  corner  and  shut 
the  sight  of  the  lake  from  him,  Alan  sat  back  breath- 
less. 

"  Astor  Street,"  he  read  the  marker  on  the  corner  a 
block  back  from  the  lake,  and  he  bent  quickly  forward 
to  look,  as  the  car  swung  to  the  right  into  Astor  Street. 
It  was  —  as  in  this  neighborhood  it  must  be  —  a  resi- 
dence street  of  handsome  mansions  built  close  together. 
The  car  swerved  to  the  east  curb  about  the  middle  of 
the  block  and  came  to  a  stop.  The  house  before  which 
it  had  halted  was  a  large  stone  house  of  quiet,  good 
design;  it  was  some  generation  older,  apparently,  than 
the  houses  on  each  side  of  it  which  were  brick  and  terra 
cotta  of  recent,  fashionable  architecture;  Alan  only 
glanced  at  them  long  enough  to  get  that  impression  be- 
fore he  opened  the  cab  door  and  got  out;  but  as  the 
cab  drove  away,  he  stood  beside  his  suitcase  looking  up 
at  the  old  house  which  bore  the  number  given  in  Benja- 
min Corvet's  letter,  then  around  at  the  other  houses  and 
back  to  that  again. 

The  neighborhood  obviously  precluded  the  probabil- 
ity of  Corvet's  being  merely  a  lawyer  —  a  go-between. 
He  must  be  some  relative;  the  question  ever  present  in 
Alan's  thought  since  the  receipt  of  the  letter,  but  held 
in  abeyance,  as  to  the  possibility  and  nearness  of  Cor- 
vet's relation  to  him,  took  sharper  and  more  exact  form 


10  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

low  than  he  had  dared  to  let  it  take  before.  Was  his 
elationship  to  Corvet,  perhaps,  the  closest  of  all  rela- 
ionships?  Was  Corvet  his  .  .  .  father?  He  checked 
he  question  within  himself,  for  the  time  had  passed  for 
nere  speculation  upon  it  now.  Alan  was  trembling 
xcitedly ;  for  —  whoever  Corvet  might  be  —  the  enigma 
>f  Alan's  existence  was  going  to  be  answered  when  he 
»ad  entered  that  house.  He  was  going  to  know  who  he 
ras.  All  the  possibilities,  the  responsibilities,  the  at- 
achments,  the  opportunities,  perhaps,  of  that  person 
ehom  he  was  —  but  whom,  as  yet,  he  did  not  know  — 
vere  before  him. 

He  half  expected  the  heavy,  glassless  door  at  the  top 
>f  the  stone  steps  to  be  opened  by  some  one  coming  out 
o  greet  him,  as  he  took  up  his  suitcase;  but  the  gray 
louse,  like  the  brighter  mansions  on  both  sides  of  it, 
•emained  impassive.  If  any  one  in  that  house  had 
>bserved  his  coming,  no  sign  was  given.  He  went  up 
he  steps  and,  with  fingers  excitedly  unsteady,  he 
>ushed  the  bell  beside  the  door. 

The  door  opened  almost  instantly  —  so  quickly  after 
he  ring,  indeed,  that  Alan,  with  leaping  throb  of  his 
leart,  knew  that  some  one  must  have  been  awaiting  him. 
3ut  the  door  opened  only  halfway,  and  the  man  who 
itood  within,  gazing  out  at  Alan  questioningly,  was  ob- 
viously a  servant. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  as  Alan  stood  looking  at 
lini  and  past  him  to  the  narrow  section  of  darkened  hall 
diich  was  in  sight. 

Alan  put  his  hand  over  the  letter  in  his  pocket. 
'  I've  come  to  see  Mr.  Corvet,"  he  said  — "  Mr.  Benja- 
nin  Corvet." 

"  What  is  your  name?  " 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  31 

Alan  gave  his  name ;  the  man  repeated  it  after  him,  in 
the  manner  of  a  trained  servant,  quite  without  inflec- 
tion. Alan,  not  familiar  with  such  tones,  waited  un- 
certainly. So  far  as  he  could  tell,  the  name  was  en- 
tirely strange  to  the  servant,  awaking  neither  welcome 
nor  opposition,  but  indifference.  The  man  stepped 
back,  but  not  in  such  a  manner  as  to  invite  Alan  in ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  half  closed  the  door  as  he  stepped  back, 
leaving  it  open  only  an  inch  or  two ;  but  it  was  enough 
so  that  Alan  heard  him  say  to  some  one  within : 

"  He  says  he's  him." 

"  Ask  him  in ;  I  will  speak  to  him."  It  was  a  girl's 
voice  —  this  second  one,  a  voice  such  as  Alan  never  had 
heard  before.  It  was  low  and  soft  but  quite  clear  and 
distinct,  with  youthful,  impulsive  modulations  and  the 
manner  of  accent  which  Alan  knew  must  go  with  the 
sort  of  people  who  lived  in  houses  like  those  on  this 
street. 

The  servant,  obeying  the  voice,  returned  and  opened 
wide  the  door. 

"  Will  you  come  in,  sir?  " 

Alan  put  down  his  suitcase  on  the  stone  porch ;  the 
man  made  no  move  to  pick  it  up  and  bring  it  in.  Then 
Alan  stepped  into  the  hall  face  to  face  with  the  girl  who 
had  come  from  the  big  room  on  the  right. 

She  was  quite  a  young  girl  —  not  over  twenty-one  or 
twenty-two,  Alan  judged;  like  girls  brought  up  in 
wealthy  families,  she  seemed  to  Alan  to  have  gained 
young  womanhood  in  far  greater  degree  in  some  respects 
than  the  girls  he  knew,  while,  at  the  same  time,  in  other 
ways,  she  retained  more  than  they  some  characteristics 
of  a  child.  Her  slender  figure  had  a  woman's  assurance 
and  grace;  her  soft  brown  hair  was  dressed  like  a 


32  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

woman's ;  her  gray  eyes  had  the  open  directness  of  the 
girl.  Her  face  —  smoothly  oval,  with  straight  brows 
and  a  skin  so  delicate  that  at  the  temples  the  veins 
showed  dimly  blue  —  was  at  once  womanly  and  youth- 
ful; and  there  was  something  altogether  likable  and 
simple  about  her,  as  she  studied  Alan  now.  She  had  on 
a  street  dress  and  hat ;  whether  it  was  this,  or  whether 
it  was  the  contrast  of  her  youth  and  vitality  with  this 
somber,  darkened  house  that  told  him,  Alan  could  not 
tell,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that  this  house  was  not 
her  home.  More  likely,  it  was  some  indefinable,  yet  con- 
vincing expression  of  her  manner  that  gave  him  that 
impression.  While  he  hazarded,  with  fast  beating 
heart,  what  privilege  of  acquaintance  with  her  Alan 
Conrad  might  have,  she  moved  a  little  nearer  to  him. 
She  was  slightly  pale,  he  noticed  now,  and  there  were 
lines  of  strain  and  trouble  about  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  Constance  Sherrill,"  she  announced.  Her 
tone  implied  quite  evidently  that  she  expected  him  to 
have  some  knowledge  of  her,  and  she  seemed  surprised 
to  see  that  her  name  did  not  mean  more  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Corvet  is  not  here  this  morning,"  she  said. 

He  hesitated,  but  persisted :  "  I  was  to  see  him  here 
to-day,  Miss  Sherrill.  He  wrote  me,  and  I  telegraphed 
him  I  would  be  here  to-day." 

"  I  know,"  she  answered.  "  We  had  your  telegram. 
Mr.  Corvet  was  not  here  when  it  came,  so  my  father 
opened  it."  Her  voice  broke  oddly,  and  he  studied  her 
in  indecision,  wondering  who  that  father  might  be  that 
opened  Mr.  Corvet's  telegrams. 

"Mr.  Corvet  went  away  very  suddenly,"  she  ex- 
plained. She  seemed,  he  thought,  to  be  trying  to  make 
something  plain  to  him  which  might  be  a  shock  to  him ; 


WHO  IS  ALAN  CONRAD?  33 

yet  herself  to  be  uncertain  what  the  nature  of  that 
shock  might  be.  Her  look  was  scrutinizing,  question- 
ing, anxious,  but  not  unfriendly.  "  After  he  had  writ- 
ten you  and  something  else  had  happened  —  I  think  — 
to  alarm  my  father  about  him,  father  came  here  to  his 
house  to  look  after  him.  He  thought  something  might 
have  .  .  .  happened  to  Mr.  Corvet  here  in  his  house- 
But  Mr.  Corvet  was  not  here." 

"  You  mean  he  has  —  disappeared  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  has  disappeared." 

Alan  gazed  at  her  dizzily.  Benjamin  Corvet  — 
whoever  he  might  be  —  had  disappeared ;  he  had  gone. 
Did  any  one  else,  then,  know  about  Alan  Conrad  ? 

"  No  one  has  seen  Mr.  Corvet,"  she  said,  "  since  the 
day  he  wrote  to  you.  We  know  that  —  that  he  became 
so  disturbed  after  doing  that  —  writing  to  you  —  that 
we  thought  you  must  bring  with  you  information  of 
him." 

"  Information ! " 

"  So  we  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  come  here  and 
tell  us  what  you  know  about  him  or  —  or  your  connec- 
tion with  him." 


CHAPTER  III 

DISCUSSION    OF    A    SHADOW 

ALAN,  as  he  looked  confusedly  and  blankly  at  her, 
made  no  attempt  to  answer  the  question  she  had 
asked,  or  to  explain.  For  the  moment,  as  he 
fought  to  realize  what  she  had  said  and  its  meaning  for 
himself,  all  his  thought  was  lost  in  mere  dismay,  in  the 
denial  and  checking  of  what  he  had  been  feeling  as  he 
entered  the  house.  His  silence  and  confusion,  he  knew, 
must  seem  to  Constance  Sherrill  unwillingness  to  an- 
swer her;  for  she  did  not  suspect  that  he  was  unable 
to  answer  her.  She  plainly  took  it  in  that  way;  but 
she  did  not  seem  offended ;  it  was  sympathy,  rather,  that 
she  showed.  She  seemed  to  appreciate,  without  under- 
standing except  through  her  feelings,  that  —  for  some 
reason  —  answer  was  difficult  and  dismaying  for  him. 

"  You  would  rather  explain  to  father  than  to  me," 
she  decided. 

He  hesitated.  What  he  wanted  now  was  time  to 
think,  to  learn  who  she  was  and  who  her  father  was,  and 
to  adjust  himself  to  this  strange  reversal  of  his  expecta- 
tions. 

"  Yes ;  I  would  rather  do  that,"  he  said. 

"  Will  you  come  around  to  our  house,  then,  please  ?  " 

She  caught  up  her  fur  collar  and  muff  from  a  chair 
and  spoke  a  word  to  the  servant.  As  she  went  out  on 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  35 

to  the  porch,  he  followed  her  and  stooped  to  pick  up 
his  suitcase. 

"  Simons  will  bring  that,"  she  said,  "  unless  you'd 
rather  have  it  with  you.  It  is  only  a  short  walk." 

He  was  recovering  from  the  first  shock  of  her  ques- 
tion now,  and,  reflecting  that  men  who  accompanied 
Constance  Sherrill  probably  did  not  carry  hand  bag- 
gage, he  put  the  suitcase  down  and  followed  her  to  the 
walk.  As  she  turned  north  and  he  caught  step  beside 
her,  he  studied  her  with  quick  interested  glances,  realiz- 
ing her  difference  from  all  other  girls  he  ever  had  walked 
with,  but  he  did  not  speak  to  her  nor  she  to  him.  Turn- 
ing east  at  the  first  corner,  they  came  within  sight  and 
hearing  again  of  the  turmoil  of  the  lake. 

"  We  go  south  here,"  she  said  at  the  corner  of  the 
Drive.  "  Our  house  is  almost  back  to  back  with  Mr. 
Corvet's." 

Alan,  looking  up  after  he  had  made  the  turn  with  her, 
recognized  the  block  as  one  he  had  seen  pictured  some- 
times in  magazines  and  illustrated  papers  as  a  "  row  " 
of  the  city's  most  beautiful  homes.  Larger,  handsomer, 
and  finer  than  the  mansions  on  Astor  Street,  each  had 
its  lawn  or  terrace  in  front  and  on  both  sides,  where 
snow-mantled  shrubs  and  straw-bound  rosebushes  sug- 
gested the  gardens  of  spring.  They  turned  in  at  the 
entrance  of  a  house  in  the  middle  of  the  block  and  went 
up  the  low,  wide  stone  steps ;  the  door  opened  to  them 
without  ring  or  knock ;  a  servant  in  the  hall  within  took 
Alan's  hat  and  coat,  and  he  followed  Constance  past 
some  great  room  upon  his  right  to  a  smaller  one  farther 
down  the  hall. 

"  Will  you  wait  here,  please  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  sat  down,  and  she  left  him ;  when  her  footsteps  nad 


36  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

died  away,  and  he  could  hear  no  other  sounds  except  the 
occasional  soft  tread  of  some  servant,  he  twisted  himself 
about  in  his  chair  and  looked  around.  A  door  between 
the  room  he  was  in  and  the  large  room  which  had  been 
upon  his  right  as  they  came  in  —  a  drawing-room  — 
stood  open ;  he  could  see  into  the  drawing-room,  and  he 
could  see  through  the  other  door  a  portion  of  the  hall ; 
his  inspection  of  these  increased  the  bewilderment  he 
felt.  Who  were  these  Sherrills  ?  Who  was  Corvet,  and 
what  was  his  relation  to  the  Sherrills?  What,  beyond 
all,  was  their  and  Corvet's  relation  to  Alan  Conrad  — 
to  himself?  The  shock  and  confusion  he  had  felt  at  the 
nature  of  his  reception  in  Corvet's  house,  and  the 
strangeness  of  his  transition  from  his  little  Kansas 
town  to  a  place  and  people  such  as  this,  had  prevented 
him  from  inquiring  directly  from  Constance  Sherrill  as 
to  that ;  and,  on  her  part,  she  had  assumed,  plainly,  that 
he  already  knew  and  need  not  be  told. 

He  got  up  And  moved  about  the  rooms ;  they,  like  all 
rooms,  must  tell  something  about  the  people  who  lived  in 
them.  The  rooms  were  large  and  open;  Alan,  in 
dreaming  and  fancying  to  himself  the  places  to  which  he 
might  some  day  be  summoned,  had  never  dreamed  of 
entering  such  a  home  as  this.  For  it  was  a  home ;  in  its 
light  and  in  its  furnishings  there  was  nothing  of  the 
stiffness  and  aloofness  which  Alan,  never  having  seen 
such  rooms  except  in  pictures,  had  imagined  to  be  neces- 
sary evils  accompanying  riches  and  luxury ;  it  was  not 
the  richness  of  its  furnishings  that  impressed  him  first, 
it  was  its  livableness.  Among  the  more  modern  pieces 
in  the  drawing-room  and  hall  were  some  which  were 
antique.  In  the  part  of  the  hall  that  he  could  see,  a 
black  and  ancient-looking  chair  whose  lines  he  recog- 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  37 

nized,  stood  against  the  wall.  He  had  seen  chairs  like 
that,  heirlooms  of  colonial  Massachusetts  or  Connecti- 
cut, cherished  in  Kansas  farmhouses  and  recalling  some 
long-past  exodus  of  the  family  from  New  England.  On 
the  wall  of  the  drawing-room,  among  the  beautiful  and 
elusive  paintings  and  etchings,  was  a  picture  of  a  ship, 
plainly  framed ;  he  moved  closer  to  look  at  it,  but  he  did 
not  know  what  kind  of  ship  it  was  except  that  it  was  a 
sailing  ship  of  some  long-disused  design.  Then  he  drew 
back  again  into  the  smaller  room  where  he  had  been  left, 
and  sat  down  again  to  wait. 

A  comfortable  fire  of  cannel  coal  was  burning  in  this 
smaller  room  in  a  black  fire-basket  set  in  a  white  marble 
grate,  obviously  much  older  than  the  house;  there  were 
big  easy  leather  chairs  before  it,  and  beside  it  there 
were  bookcases.  On  one  of  these  stood  a  two-handled 
silver  trophy  cup,  and  hung  high  upon  the  wall  above 
the  mantel  was  a  long  racing  sweep  with  the  date  '85 
painted  in  black  across  the  blade.  He  had  the  feeling, 
coming  quite  unconsciously,  of  liking  the  people  who 
lived  in  this  handsome  house. 

He  straightened  and  looked  about,  then  got  up,  as 
Constance  Sherrill  came  back  into  the  room. 

"  Father  is  not  here  just  now,"  she  said.  "  We 
weren't  sure  from  your  telegram  exactly  at  what  hour 
you  would  arrive,  and  that  was  why  I  waited  at  Mr. 
Corvet's  to  be  sure  we  wouldn't  miss  you.  I  have  tele- 
phoned father,  and  he's  coming  home  at  once." 

She  hesitated  an  instant  in  the  doorway,  then  turned 
to  go  out  again. 

"Miss  Sherrill—"  he  said. 

She  halted.     "  Yes." 

"  You  told  me  you  had  been  waiting  for  me  to  rome 


38  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

and  explain  my  connection  with  Mr.  Corvet.  Well  — 
I  can't  do  that ;  that  is  what  I  came  here  hoping  to  find 
out." 

She  came  back  toward  him  slowly. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked. 

He  was  forcing  himself  to  disregard  the  strangeness 
which  his  surroundings  and  all  that  had  happened  in  the 
last  half  hour  had  made  him  feel;  leaning  his  arms  on 
the  back  of  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting,  he 
managed  to  smile  reassuringly ;  and  he  fought  down  and 
controlled  resolutely  the  excitement  in  his  voice,  as  he 
told  her  rapidly  the  little  he  knew  about  himself. 

He  could  not  tell  definitely  how  she  was  affected  by 
what  he  said.  She  flushed  slightly,  following  her  first 
start  of  surprise  after  he  had  begun  to  speak ;  when  he 
had  finished,  he  saw  that  she  was  a  little  pale. 

"  Then  you  don't  know  anything  about  Mr.  Corvet 
at  all,"  she  said. 

"  No ;  until  I  got  his  letter  sending  for  me  here,  I'd 
never  seen  or  heard  his  name." 

She  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  said.  "  I'll  tell  my 
father  when  he  comes." 

"  Your  father  is  — ?  "  he  ventured. 

She  understood  now  that  the  name  of  Sherrill  had 
meant  nothing  to  him.  "  Father  is  Mr.  Corvet's  closest 
friend,  and  his  business  partner  as  well,"  she  explained. 

He  thought  she  was  going  to  tell  him  something  more 
about  them ;  but  she  seemed  then  to  decide  to  leave  that 
for  her  father  to  do.  She  crossed  to  the  big  chair  be- 
side the  grate  and  seated  herself.  As  she  sat  looking  at 
him,  hands  clasped  beneath  her  chin,  and  her  elbows  rest- 
ing on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  there  was  speculation  and 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  39 

interest  in  her  gaze ;  but  she  did  not  ask  him  anything 
more  about  himself.  She  inquired  about  the  Kansas 
weather  that  week  in  comparison  with  the  storm  which 
had  just  ceased  in  Chicago,  and  about  Blue  Rapids, 
which  she  said  she  had  looked  up  upon  the  map,  and  he 
took  this  chat  for  what  it  was  —  notification  that  she 
did  not  wish  to  continue  the  other  topic  just  then. 

She,  he  saw,  was  listening,  like  himself,  for  the  sound 
of  Sherrill's  arrival  at  the  house;  and  when  it  came, 
she  recognized  it  first,  rose,  and  excused  herself.  He 
heard  her  voice  in  the  hall,  then  her  father's  deeper 
voice  which  answered ;  and  ten  minutes  later,  he  looked 
up  to  see  the  man  these  things  had  told  him  must  be 
Sherrill  standing  in  the  door  and  looking  at  him. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  sparely  built ;  his  broad  shoulders 
had  been  those  of  an  athlete  in  his  youth ;  now,  at  some- 
thing over  fifty,  they  had  taken  on  a  slight,  rather 
studious  stoop,  and  his  brown  hair  had  thinned  upon 
his  forehead.  His  eyes,  gray  like  his  daughter's,  were 
thoughtful  eyes;  just  now  deep  trouble  filled  them. 
His  look  and  bearing  of  a  refined  and  educated  gentle- 
man took  away  all  chance  of  offense  from  the  long, 
inquiring  scrutiny  to  which  he  subjected  Alan's  features 
and  figure  before  he  came  into  the  room. 

Alan  had  risen  at  sight  of  him ;  Sherrill,  as  he  came  in, 
motioned  him  back  to  his  seat;  he  did  not  sit  down 
himself,  but  crossed  to  the  mantel  and  leaned  against 
it. 

"  I  am  Lawrence  Sherrill,"  he  said. 

As  the  tall,  graceful,  thoughtful  man  stood  looking 
down  at  him,  Alan  could  tell  nothing  of  the  attitude  of 
this  friend  of  Benjamin  Corvet  toward  himself.  His 
manner  had  the  same  reserve  toward  Alan,  the  same 


40  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

questioning  consideration  of  him,  that  Constance  Sher- 
rill  had  had  after  Alan  had  told  her  about  himself. 

"  My  daughter  has  repeated  to  me  what  you  told  her, 
Mr.  Conrad,"  Sherrill  observed.  "Is  there  anything 
you  want  to  add  to  me  regarding  that?  " 

"  There's  nothing  I  can  add,"  Alan  answered.  "  I 
told  her  all  that  I  know  about  myself." 

"And  about  Mr.  Corvet?" 

"  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  Mr.  Corvet." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  some  things  about  Mr.  Cor- 
vet," Sherrill  said.  "  I  had  reason  —  I  do  net  want  to 
explain  just  yet  what  that  reason  was  —  for  thinking 
you  could  tell  us  certain  things  about  Mr.  Corvet,  which 
would,  perhaps,  make  plainer  what  has  happened  to  him. 
When  I  tell  you  about  him  now,  it  is  in  the  hope  that, 
in  that  way,  I  may  awake  some  forgotten  memory  of 
him  in  you ;  if  not  that,  you  may  discover  some  coinci- 
dences of  dates  or  events  in  Corvet's  life  with  dates  or 
events  in  your  own.  Will  you  tell  me  frankly,  if  you 
do  discover  anything  like  that?  " 

"  Yes ;  certainly." 

Alan  leaned  forward  in  the  big  chair,  hands  clasped 
between  his  knees,  his  blood  tingling  sharply  in  his  face 
and  fingertips.  So  Sherrill  expected  to  make  him  re- 
member Corvet !  There  was  strange  excitement  in  this, 
and  he  waited  eagerly  for  Sherrill  to  begin.  For  sev- 
eral moments,  Sherrill  paced  up  and  down  before  the 
fire ;  then  he  returned  to  his  place  before  the  mantel. 

"I  first  met  Benjamin  Corvet,"  he  commenced, 
"  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  I  had  come  West  for  the 
first  time  the  year  before ;  I  was  about  your  own  age 
and  had  been  graduated  from  college  only  a  short  time, 
and  a  business  opening  had  offered  itself  here. 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  41 

"  There  was  a  sentimental  reason  —  I  think  I  must 
call  it  that  —  as  well,  for  my  coming  to  Chicago.  Un- 
til my  generation,  the  property  of  our  family  had 
always  been  largely  —  and  generally  exclusively  —  in 
ships.  It  is  a  Salem  family;  a  Sherrill  was  a  sea- 
captain,  living  in  Salem,  they  say,  when  his  neighbors  — 
and  he,  I  suppose  —  hanged  witches  ;  we  had  privateers 
in  1812  and  our  clippers  went  round  the  Horn  in  '49. 
The  Alabama  ended  our  ships  in  '63,  as  it  ended  prac- 
tically the  rest  of  the  American  shipping  on  the  Atlan- 
tic; and  in  '73,  when  our  part  of  the  Alabama  claims 
was  paid  us,  my  mother  put  it  in  bonds  waiting  for  me 
to  grow  up. 

"  Sentiment,  when  I  came  of  age,  made  me  want  to 
put  this  money  back  into  ships  flying  the  American  flag; 
but  there  was  small  chance  of  putting  it  —  and  keeping 
it,  with  profit  —  in  American  ships  on  the  sea.  In  Bos- 
ton and  New  York,  I  had  seen  the  foreign  flags  on  the 
deep-water  ships  —  British,  German,  French,  Nor- 
wegian, Swedish,  and  Greek;  our  flag  flew  mostly  on 
ferries  and  excursion  steamers.  But  times  were  boom- 
ing on  the  great  lakes.  Chicago,  which  had  more  than 
recovered  from  the  fire,  was  doubling  its  population 
every  decade ;  Cleveland,  Duluth,  and  Milwaukee  were 
leaping  up  as  ports.  Men  were  growing  millions  of 
bushels  of  grain  which  they  couldn't  ship  except  by 
lake ;  hundreds  of  thousands  of  tons  of  ore  had  to  go  by 
water;  and  there  were  tens  of, millions  of  feet  of  pine 
and  hardwood  from  the  Michigan  forests.  Sailing  ves- 
sels such  as  the  Sherrills  had  always  operated,  it  is 
true,  had  seen  their  day  and  were  disappearing  from 
the  lakes ;  were  being  '  sold,'  many  of  them,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  *  to  the  insurance  companies '  by  deliberate 


4£  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

wrecking.  Steamers  were  taking  their  place.  Towing 
had  come  in.  The  first  of  the  whalebacks  was  built 
about  thai  time,  and  we  began  to  see  those  processions 
of  a  barge  and  two,  three,  or  four  tows  which  the  lake- 
men  called  '  the  sow  and  her  pigs.'  Men  of  all  sorts  had 
come  forward,  of  course,  and,  serving  the  situation 
more  or  less  accidentally,  were  making  themselves 
rich. 

"  It  was  railroading  which  had  brought  me  West ; 
but  I  had  brought  with  me  the  Alabama  money  to  put 
into  ships.  I  have  called  it  sentiment,  but  it  was  not 
merely  that ;  I  felt,  young  man  though  I  was,  that  this 
transportation  matter  was  all  one  thing,  and  that  in 
the  end  the  railroads  would  own  the  ships.  I  have  never 
engaged  very  actively  in  the  operation  of  the  ships ;  my 
daughter  would  like  me  to  be  more  active  in  it  than  I 
have  been;  but  ever  since,  I  have  had  money  in  lake 
vessels.  It  was  the  year  that  I  began  that  sort  of  in- 
vestment that  I  first  met  Corvet." 

Alan  looked  up  quickly.  "  Mr.  Corvet  was  — ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Corvet  was  —  is  a  lakeman,"  Sherrill  said. 

Alan  sat  motionless,  as  he  recollected  the  strange 
exaltation  that  had  come  to  him  when  he  saw  the  lake 
for  the  first  time.  Should  he  tell  Sherrill  of  that  ?  He 
decided  it  was  too  vague,  too  indefinite  to  be  mentioned ; 
no  doubt  any  other  man  used  only  to  the  prairie  might 
have  felt  the  same. 

"  He  was  a  ship  owner,  then,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  he  was  a  shipowner  —  not,  however,  on  a  large 
scale  at  that  time.  He  had  been  a  master,  sailing  ships 
which  belonged  to  others ;  then  he  had  sailed  one  of  his 
own.  He  was  operating  then,  I  believe,  two  vessels; 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  43 

but  with  the  boom  times  on  the  lakes,  his  interests  were 
beginning  to  expand.  I  met  him  frequently  in  the  next 
few  years,  and  we  became  close  friends." 

Sherrill  broke  off  and  stared  an  instant  down  at  the 
rug.  Alan  bent  forward ;  he  made  no  interruption  but 
only  watched  Sherrill  attentively. 

"  It  was  one  of  the  great  advantages  of  the  West,  I 
think  —  and  particularly  of  Chicago  at  that  time  — 
that  it  gave  opportunity  for  friendships  of  that  sort," 
Sherrill  said.  "  Corvet  was  a  man  of  a  sort  I  would 
have  been  far  less  likely  ever  to  have  known  intimately 
in  the  East.  He  was  both  what  the  lakes  had  made 
him  and  what  he  had  made  of  himself ;  a  great  reader  — 
wholly  self-educated;  he  had,  I  think,  many  of  the  at- 
tributes of  a  great  man  —  at  least,  they  were  those  of 
a  man  who  should  have  become  great;  he  had  imagina- 
tion and  vision.  His  whole  thought  and  effort,  at  that 
time,  were  absorbed  in  furthering  and  developing  the 
traffic  on  the  lakes,  and  not  at  all  from  mere  desire  for 
personal  success.  I  met  him  for  the  first  time  one  day 
when  I  went  to  his  office  on  some  business.  He  had  just 
opened  an  office  at  that  time  in  one  of  the  old  ram- 
shackle rows  along  the  river  front;  there  was  nothing 
at  all  pretentious  about  it  —  the  contrary,  in  fact ;  but 
as  I  went  in  and  waited  with  the  others  who  were  there 
to  see  him,  I  had  the  sense  of  being  in  the  ante-room  of 
a  great  man.  I  do  not  mean  there  was  any  idiotic 
pomp  or  lackyism  or  red  tape  about  it;  I  mean  that 
the  others  who  were  waiting  to  see  him,  and  who  knew 
him,  were  keyed  up  by  the  anticipation  and  keyed  me 
up.  .  .  . 

"  I  saw  as  much  as  I  could  of  him  after  that,  and  our 
friendship  became  very  close. 


44  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  In  1892,  when  I  married  and  took  my  residence  here 
on  the  lake  shore  —  the  house  stood  where  this  one 
stands  now  —  Corvet  bought  the  house  on  Astor  Street. 
His  only  reason  for  doing  it  was,  I  believe,  his  desire 
to  be  near  me.  The  neighborhood  was  what  they  call 
fashionable ;  neither  Corvet  nor  Mrs.  Corvet  —  he  had 
married  in  1889  —  had  social  ambitions  of  that  sort. 
Mrs.  Corvet  came  from  Detroit ;  she  was  of  good  family 
there  —  a  strain  of  French  blood  in  the  family ;  she  was 
a  schoolteacher  when  he  married  her,  and  she  had  made 
a  wonderful  wife  for  him  —  a  good  woman,  a  woman  of 
very  high  ideals ;  it  was  great  grief  to  both  of  them  that 
they  had  no  children. 

"Between  1886,  when  I  first  met  him,  and  1895, 
Corvet  laid  the  foundation  of  great  success;  his  boats 
seemed  lucky,  men  liked  to  work  for  him,  and  he  got  the 
best  skippers  and  crews.  A  Corvet  captain  boasted 
of  it  and,  if  he  had  had  bad  luck  on  another  line,  be- 
lieved his  luck  changed  when  he  took  a  Corvet  ship; 
cargoes  in  Corvet  bottoms  somehow  always  reached 
port;  there  was  a  saying  that  in  storm  a  Corvet  ship 
never  asked  help;  it  gave  it;  certainly  in  twenty  years 
no  Corvet  ship  had  suffered  serious  disaster.  Corvet 
was  not  yet  rich,  but  unless  accident  or  undue  compe- 
tition intervened,  he  was  certain  to  become  so.  Then 
something  happened." 

Sherrill  looked  away  at  evident  loss  how  to  describe 
it. 

"  To  the  ships?  "  Alan  asked  him. 

"No;  to  him.  In  1896,  for  no  apparent  reason,  a 
great  change  came  over  him." 

"In  1896!" 

"  That  was  the  year." 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  45 

Alan  bent  forward,  his  heart  throbbing  in  his  throat. 
"  That  was  also  the  year  when  I  was  brought  and  left 
with  the  Weltons  in  Kansas,"  he  said. 

Sherrill  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  "  I  thought," 
he  said  finally,  "  it  must  have  been  about  that  time ;  but 
you  did  not  tell  my  daughter  the  exact  date." 

"  What  kind  of  change  came  over  him  that  year  ?  " 
Alan  asked. 

Sherrill  gazed  down  at  the  rug,  then  at  Alan,  then 
past  him.  "  A  change  in  his  way  of  living,"  he  replied. 
"  The  Corvet  line  of  boats  went  on,  expanded ;  interests 
were  acquired  in  other  lines ;  and  Corvet  and  those  allied 
with  him  swiftly  grew  rich.  But  in  all  this  great  devel- 
opment, for  which  Corvet's  genius  and  ability  had  laid 
the  foundation,  Corvet  himself  ceased  to  take  active 
part.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  formally  retired ;  he  re- 
tained his  control  of  the  business,  but  he  very  seldom 
went  to  the  office  and,  except  for  occasional  violent, 
almost  pettish  interference  in  the  affairs  of  the  com- 
pany, he  left  it  in  the  hands  of  others.  He  took  into 
partnership,  about  a  year  later,  Henry  Spearman,  a 
young  man  who  had  been  merely  a  mate  on  one  of  his 
ships.  This  proved  subsequently  to  have  been  a  good 
business  move,  for  Spearman  has  tremendous  energy, 
daring,  and  enterprise ;  and  no  doubt  Corvet  had  recog- 
nized these  qualities  in  him  before  others  did.  But  at 
the  time  it  excited  considerable  comment.  It  marked, 
certainly,  the  beginning  of  Corvet's  withdrawal  from 
active  management.  Since  then  he  has  been  ostensibly 
and  publicly  the  head  of  the  concern,  but  he  has  left  the 
management  almost  entirely  to  Spearman.  The  per- 
sonal change  in  Corvet  at  that  time  is  harder  for  me  to 
describe  to  you." 


46  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Sherrill  halted,  his  eyes  dark  with  thought,  his  lips 
pressed  closely  together ;  Alan  waited. 

**  When  I  saw  Corvet  again,  in  the  summer  of  '96  — 
I  had  been  South  during  the  latter  part  of  the  winter 
and  East  through  the  spring  —  I  was  impressed  by  the 
vague  but,  to  me,  alarming  change  in  him.  I  was  re- 
minded, I  recall,  of  a  friend  I  had  had  in  college  who 
had  thought  he  was  in  perfect  health  and  had  gone  to 
an  examiner  for  life  insurance  and  had  been  refused, 
and  was  trying  to  deny  to  himself  and  others  that  any- 
thing could  be  the  matter.  But  with  Corvet  I  knew 
the  trouble  was  not  physical.  The  next  year  his  wife 
left  him." 

"  The  year  of—?  "  Alan  asked. 

"That  was  1897.  We  did  not  know  at  first,  of 
course,  that  the  separation  was  permanent.  It  proved 
so,  however;  and  Corvet,  I  know  now,  had  understood 
it  to  be  that  way  from  the  first.  Mrs.  Corvet  went  to 
France  —  the  French  blood  in  her,  I  suppose,  made  her 
select  that  country;  she  had  for  a  number  of  years  a 
cottage  near  Trouville,  in  Normandy,  and  was  active  in 
church  work.  I  know  there  was  almost  no  communica- 
tion between  herself  and  her  husband  during  those 
years,  and  her  leaving  him  markedly  affected  Corvet. 
He  had  been  very  fond  of  her  and  proud  of  her.  I  had 
seen  him  sometimes  watching  her  while  she  talked ;  he 
would  gaze  at  her  steadily  and  then  look  about  at  the 
other  women  in  the  room  and  back  to  her,  and  his  head 
would  nod  just  perceptibly  with  satisfaction ;  and  she 
would  see  it  sometimes  and  smile.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  their  understanding  and  affection  up  to  the  very 
time  she  so  suddenly  and  so  strangely  left  him.  She 
died  in  Trouville  in  the  spring  of  1910,  and  Corvet's 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  47 

first  information  of  her  death  come  to  him  through  a 
paragraph  in  a  newspaper." 

Alan  had  started;  Sherrill  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly. 

"  The  spring  of  1910,"  Alan  explained,  "  was  when 
I  received  the  bank  draft  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars." 

Sherrill  nodded;  he  did  not  seem  surprised  to  hear 
this  ;  rather  it  appeared  to  be  confirmation  of  something 
in  his  own  thought. 

"  Following  his  wife's  leaving  him,"  Sherrill  went  on, 
"  Corvet  saw  very  little  of  any  one.  He  spent  most  of 
his  time  in  his  own  house;  occasionally  he  lunched  at 
his  club ;  at  rare  intervals,  and  always  unexpectedly,  he 
appeared  at  his  office.  I  remember  that  summer  he  was 
terribly  disturbed  because  one  of  his  ships  was  lost.  It 
was  not  a  bad  disaster,  for  every  one  on  the  ship  was 
saved,  and  hull  and  cargo  were  fully  covered  by  insur- 
ance; but  the  Corvet  record  was  broken;  a  Corvet  ship 
had  appealed  for  help ;  a  Corvet  vessel  had  not  reached 
port.  .  .  .  And  later  in  the  fall,  when  two  deckhands 
were  washed  from  another  of  his  vessels  and  drowned, 
he  was  again  greatly  wrought  up,  though  his  ships  still 
had  a  most  favorable  record.  In  1902  I  proposed  to 
him  that  I  buy  full  ownership  in  the  vessels  I  partly 
controlled  and  ally  them  with  those  he  and  Spearman 
operated.  It  was  a  time  of  combination  —  the  rail- 
roads and  the  steel  interests  were  acquiring  the  lake 
vessels ;  and  though  I  believed  in  this,  I  was  not  willing 
to  enter  any  combination  which  would  take  the  name  of 
Sherrill  off  the  list  of  American  shipowners.  I  did  not 
give  Corvet  this  as  my  reason ;  and  he  made  me  at  that 
time  a  very  strange  counter-proposition  —  which  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand,  and  which  entailed  the 


48  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

very  obliteration  of  my  name  which  I  was  trying  to 
avoid.  He  proposed  that  I  accept  a  partnership  in  his 
concern  on  a  most  generous  basis,  but  that  the  name  of 
the  company  remain  as  it  was,  merely  Corvet  and 
Spearman.  Spearman's  influence  and  mine  prevailed 
upon  him  to  allow  my  name  to  appear ;  since  then,  the 
firm  name  has  been  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman. 

"  Our  friendship  had  strengthened  and  ripened  dur- 
ing those  years.  The  intense  activity  of  Corvet's  mind, 
which  as  a  younger  man  he  had  directed  wholly  to  the 
shipping,  was  directed,  after  he  had  isolated  himself  in 
this  way,  to  other  things.  He  took  up  almost  fever- 
ishly an  immense  number  of  studies  —  strange  studies 
most  of  them  for  a  man  whose  youth  had  been  almost 
violently  active  and  who  had  once  been  a  lake  captain. 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  they  all  were  —  geology,  eth- 
nology, nearly  a  score  of  subjects ;  he  corresponded  with 
various  scientific  societies  ;  he  has  given  almost  the  whole 
of  his  attention  to  such  things  for  about  twenty  years. 
Since  I  have  known  him,  he  has  transformed  himself 
from  the  rather  rough,  uncouth  —  though  always 
spiritually  minded  —  man  he  was  when  I  first  met  him 
into  an  educated  gentleman  whom  anybody  would  be 
glad  to  know;  but  he  has  made  very  few  acquaintances 
in  that  time,  and  has  kept  almost  none  of  his  old  friend- 
ships. He  has  lived  alone  in  the  house  on  Astor  Street 
with  only  one  servant  —  the  same  one  all  these  years. 

"  The  only  house  he  has  visited  with  any  frequency 
has  been  mine.  He  has  always  liked  my  wife ;  he  had  — 
he  has  a  great  affection  for  my  daughter,  who,  when  she 
was  a  child,  ran  in  and  out  of  his  home  as  she  pleased. 
He  would  take  long  walks  with  her;  he'd  come  here 
sometimes  in  the  afternoon  to  have  tea  with  her  on 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  49 

stormy  days ;  he  liked  to  have  her  play  and  sing  to  him. 
My  daughter  believes  now  that  his  present  disappear- 
ance —  whatever  has  happened  to  him  —  is  connected 
in  some  way  with  herself.  I  do  not  think  that  is  so  — " 

Sherrill  broke  off  and  stood  in  thought  for  a  moment ; 
he  seemed  to  consider,  and  to  decide  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  say  anything  more  on  that  subject. 

"  Recently  Corvet's  moroseness  and  irritability  had 
very  greatly  increased ;  he  had  quarreled  frequently  and 
bitterly  with  Spearman  over  business  affairs.  He  had 
seemed  more  than  usually  eager  at  times  to  see  me  or 
to  see  my  daughter;  and  at  other  times  he  had  seemed 
to  avoid  us  and  keep  away.  I  have  had  the  feeling  of 
late,  though  I  could  not  give  any  actual  reason  for  it 
except  Corvet's  manner  and  look,  that  the  disturbance 
which  had  oppressed  him  for  twenty  years  was  culmi- 
nating in  some  way.  That  culmination  seems  to  have 
been  reached  three  days  ago,  when  he  wrote  summoning 
you  here.  Henry  Spearman,  wliom  I  asked  about  you 
when  I  learned  you  were  coming,  had  never  heard  of 
you ;  Mr.  Corvet's  servant  had  never  heard  of  you.  .  .  . 

"  Is  there  anything  in  what  I  have  told  you  which 
makes  it  possible  for  you  to  recollect  or  to  explain  ?  " 

Alan  shook  his  head,  flushed,  and  then  grew  a  little 
pale.  What  Sherrill  told  him  had  excited  him  by  the 
coincidences  it  offered  between  events  in  Benjamin  Cor- 
vet's life  and  his  own ;  it  had  not  made  him  "  recollect  " 
Corvet,  but  it  had  given  definiteness  and  direction  to  his 
speculations  as  to  Corvet's  relation  to  himself. 

Sherrill  drew  one  of  the  large  chairs  nearer  to  Alan 
and  sat  down  facing  him.  He  felt  in  an  inner  pocket 
and  brought  out  an  envelope ;  from  the  envelope  he  took 
three  pictures,  and  handed  the  smallest  of  them  to  Alan. 


50  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

As  Alan  took  it,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  tintype  of  him- 
self as  a  round-faced  boy  of  seven. 

"  That  is  you?  "  Sherrill  asked. 

"  Yes ;  it  was  taken  by  the  photographer  in  Blue 
Rapids.  We  all  had  our  pictures  taken  on  that  day  — 
Jim,  Betty,  and  I.  Mr.  Welton  " —  for  the  first  time 
Alan  consciously  avoided  giving  the  title  "  Father  "  to 
the  man  in  Kansas  — "  sent  one  of  me  to  the  *  general 
delivery  '  address  of  the  person  in  Chicago." 

"And  this?" 

The  second  picture,  Alan  saw,  was  one  that  had  been 
taken  in  front  of  the  barn  at  the  farm.  It  showed 
Alan  at  twelve,  in  overalls  and  barefooted,  holding  a 
stick  over  his  head  at  which  a  shepherd  dog  was  jump- 
ing. 

"  Yes ;  that  is  Shep  and  I  —  Jim's  and  my  dog,  Mr. 
Sherrill.  It  was  taken  by  a  man  who  stopped  at  the 
house  for  dinner  one  day ;  he  liked  Shep  and  wanted  a 
picture  of  him;  so  he  got  me  to  make  Shep  jump,  and 
he  took  it." 

"  You  don't  remember  anything  about  the  man  ?  " 

"  Only  that  he  had  a  camera  and  wanted  a  picture 
of  Shep." 

"  Doesn't  it  occur  to  you  that  it  was  your  picture 
he  wanted,  and  that  he  had  been  sent  to  get  it?  I 
wanted  your  verification  that  these  earlier  pictures  were 
of  you,  but  this  last  one  is  easily  recognizable." 

Sherrill  unfolded  the  third  picture ;  it  was  larger  than 
the  others  and  had  been  folded  across  the  middle  to  get 
it  into  the  envelope.  Alan  leaned  forward  to  look  at 
it. 

"  That  is  the  University  of  Kansas  football  team," 
he  said.  "  I  am  the  second  one  in  the  front  row ;  I 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  51 

played  end  my  junior  year  and  tackle  when  I  was  a 
senior.  Mr.  Corvet — ?" 

"  Yes ;  Mr.  Corvet  had  these  pictures.  They  came 
into  my  possession  day  before  yesterday,  the  day  after 
Corvet  disappeared;  I  do  not  want  to  tell  just  yet  how 
they  did  that." 

Alan's  face,  which  had  been  flushed  at  first  with  ex- 
citement, had  gone  quite  pale,  and  his  hands,  as  he 
clenched  and  unclenched  them  nervously,  were  cold,  and 
his  lips  were  very  dry.  He  could  think  of  no  possible 
relationship  between  Benjamin  Corvet  and  himself, 
except  one,  which  could  account  for  Corvet's  obtaining 
and  keeping  these  pictures  of  him  through  the  years. 
As  Sherrill  put  the  pictures  back  into  their  envelope  and 
the  envelope  back  into  his  pocket,  and  Alan  watched 
him,  Alan  felt  nearly  certain  now  that  it  had  not  been 
proof  of  the  nature  of  this  relationship  that  Sherrill 
had  been  trying  to  get  from  him,  but  only  corroboration 
of  some  knowledge,  or  partial  knowledge,  which  had 
come  to  Sherrill  in  some  other  way.  The  existence  of 
this  knowledge  was  implied  by  SherrilPs  withholding 
of  the  way  he  had  come  into  possession  of  the  pictures, 
and  his  manner  showed  now  that  he  had  received  from 
Alan  the  confirmation  for  which  he  had  been  seeking. 

"  I  think  you  know  who  I  am,"  Alan  said. 

Sherrill  had  risen  and  stood  looking  down  at  him. 

"  You  have  guessed,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  that  you 
are  Corvet's  son." 

The  color  flamed  to  Alan's  face  for  an  instant,  then 
left  it  paler  than  before.  "  I  thought  it  must  be  that 
way,"  he  answered ;  "  but  you  said  he  had  no  chil- 
dren." 

"  Benjamin  Corvet  and  his  wife  had  no  children." 


52  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  I  thought  that  was  what  you  meant."  A  twinge 
twisted  Alan's  face;  he  tried  to  control  it  but  for  a 
moment  could  not. 

Sherrill  suddenly  put  his  hand  on  Alan's  shoulder; 
there  was  something  so  friendly,  so  affectionate  in  the 
quick,  impulsive  grasp  of  Sherrill's  fingers,  that  Alan's 
heart  throbbed  to  it;  for  the  first  time  some  one  had 
touched  him  in  full,  unchecked  feeling  for  him;  for 
the  first  time,  the  unknown  about  him  had  failed  to 
be  a  barrier  and,  instead,  had  drawn  another  to 
him. 

"Do  not  misapprehend  your  father,"  Sherrill  said 
quietly.  "I  cannot  prevent  what  other  people  may 
think  when  they  learn  this ;  but  I  do  not  share  such 
thoughts  with  them.  There  is  much  in  this  I  cannot 
understand ;  but  I  know  that  it  is  not  merely  the  result 
of  what  others  may  think  it  —  of  '  a  wife  in  more  ports 
than  one,'  as  you  will  hear  the  lakemen  put  it.  What 
lies  under  this  is  some  great  misadventure  which  had 
changed  and  frustrated  all  your  father's  life." 

Sherrill  crossed  the  room  and  rang  for  a  servant. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  be  my  guest  for  a  short 
time,  Alan,"  he  announced.  "  I  have  had  your  bag 
carried  to  your  room ;  the  man  will  show  you  which  one 
it  is." 

Alan  hesitated ;  he  felt  that  Sherrill  had  not  told  him 
all  he  knew  —  that  there  were  some  things  Sherrill  pur- 
posely was  withholding  from  him ;  but  he  could  not  force 
Sherrill  to  tell  more  than  he  wished;  so  after  an  in- 
stant's irresolution,  he  accepted  the  dismissal. 

Sherrill  walked  with  him  to  the  door,  and  gave  his 
directions  to  the  servant;  he  stood  watching,  as  Alan 
and  the  man  went  up  the  stairs.  Then  he  went  back 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  53 

and  seated  himself  in  the  chair  Alan  had  occupied,  and 
sat  with  hands  grasping  the  arms  of  the  chair  while  he 
stared  into  the  fire. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  he  heard  his  daughter's  foot- 
steps and  looked  up.  Constance  halted  in  the  door  to 
assure  herself  that  he  was  now  alone ;  then  she  came  to 
him  and,  seating  herself  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  she  put 
her  hand  on  his  thin  hair  and  smoothed  it  softly ;  he 
felt  for  her  other  hand  with  his  and  found  it,  and  held 
it  clasped  between  his  palms. 

"  You've  found  out  who  he  is,  father?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  facts  have  left  me  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  that, 
little  daughter." 

"  No  doubt  that  he  is who?  " 

Sherrill  was  silent  for  a  moment  —  not  from  uncer- 
tainty, but  because  of  the  effect  which  what  he  must  say 
would  have  upon  her;  then  he  told  her  in  almost  the 
same  words  he  had  used  to  Alan.  Constance  started, 
flushed,  and  her  hand  stiffened  convulsively  between  her 
father's. 

They  said  nothing  more  to  one 'another;  Sherrill 
seemed  considering  and  debating  something  within  him- 
self; and  presently  he  seemed  to  come  to  a  decision. 
He  got  up,  stooped  and  touched  his  daughter's  hand, 
and  left  the  room.  He  went  up  the  stairs  and  on  the 
second  floor  he  went  to  a  front  room  and  knocked. 
Alan's  voice  told  him  to  come  in.  Sherrill  went  in  and, 
when  he  had  made  sure  that  the  servant  was  not  with 
Alan,  he  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him. 

Then  he  turned  back  to  Alan,  and  for  an  instant 
stood  indecisive  as  though  he  did  not  know  how  to  begin 
what  he  wanted  to  say.  As  he  glanced  down  at  a  key 
he  took  from  his  pocket,  his  indecision  seemed  to  receive 


54.  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

direction  and  inspiration  from  it ;  and  he  put  it  down  on 
Alan's  dresser. 

"  I've  brought  you,"  he  said  evenly,  "  the  key  to  your 
house." 

Alan  gazed  at  him,  bewildered.  "  The  key  to  my 
house?  " 

"  To  the  house  on  Astor  Street,"  Sherrill  confirmed. 
"  Your  father  deeded  the  house  and  its  furniture  and  all 
its  contents  to  you  the  day  before  he  disappeared.  I 
have  not  the  deed  here;  it  came  into  my  hands  the  day 
before  yesterday  at  the  same  time  I  got  possession  of 
the  pictures  which  might  —  or  might  not,  for  all  I  knew 
then  —  be  you.  I  have  the  deed  down-town  and  will 
give  it  to  you.  The  house  is  yours  in  fee  simple,  given 
you  by  your  father,  not  bequeathed  to  you  by  him  to 
become  your  property  after  his  death.  He  meant  by 
that,  I  think,  even  more  than  the  mere  acknowledgment 
that  he  is  your  father." 

Sherrill  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  as  though 
looking  out,  but  his  eyes  were  blank  with  thought. 

"  For  almost  twenty  years,"  he  said,  "  your  father, 
as  I  have  told  you,  lived  in  that  house  practically  alone ; 
during  all  those  years  a  shadow  of  some  sort  was  over 
him.  I  don't  know  at  all,  Alan,  what  that  shadow  was. 
But  it  is  certain  that  whatever  it  was  that  had  changed 
him  from  the  man  he  was  when  I  first  knew  him  culmi- 
nated three  days  ago  when  he  wrote  to  you.  It  may  be 
that  the  consequences  of  his  writing  to  you  were  such 
that,  after  he  had  sent  the  letter,  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  face  them  and  so  has  merely  .  .  .  gone  away. 
In  that  case,  as  we  stand  here  talking,  he  is  still  alive. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  writing  you  may  have  precipi- 
tated something  that  1  know  nothing  of.  In  either 


DISCUSSION  OF  A  SHADOW  55 

case,  if  he  has  left  anywhere  any  evidence  of  what  it  is 
that  changed  and  oppressed  him  for  all  these  years,  or 
if  there  is  any  evidence  of  what  has  happened  to  him 
now,  it  will  be  found  in  his  house." 

Sherrill  turned  back  to  Alan.  "  It  is  for  you  —  not 
me,  Alan,"  he  said  simply,  "  to  make  that  search.  I 
have  thought  seriously  about  it,  this  last  half  hour,  and 
have  decided  that  is  as  he  would  want  it  —  perhaps  as 
he  did  want  it  —  to  be.  He  could  have  told  me  what 
his  trouble  was  any  time  in  these  twenty  years,  if  he 
had  been  willing  I  should  know ;  but  he  never  did." 

Sherrill  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  There  are  some  things  your  father  did  just  before 
he  disappeared  that  I  have  not  told  you  yet,"  he  went 
on.  "  The  reason  I  have  not  told  them  is  that  I  have 
not  yet  fully  decided  in  my  own  mind  what  action  they 
call  for  from  me.  I  can  assure  you,  however,  that  it 
would  not  help  you  now  in  any  way  to  know  them." 

He  thought  again ;  then  glanced  to  the  key  on  the 
dresser  and  seemed  to  recollect. 

"  That  key,"  he  said,  "  is  one  I  made  your  father 
give  me  some  time  ago ;  he  was  at  home  alone  so  much 
that  I  was  afraid  something  might  happen  to  him  there. 
He  gave  it  me  because  he  knew  I  would  not  misuse  it.  I 
used  it,  for  the  first  time,  three  days  ago,  when,  after 
becoming  certain  something  had  gone  wrong  with  him, 
I  went  to  the  house  to  search  for  him ;  my  daughter  used 
it  this  morning  when  she  went  there  to  wait  for  you. 
Your  father,  of  course,  had  a  key  to  the  front  door  like 
this  one ;  his  servant  has  a  key  to  the  servants'  entrance. 
I  do  not  know  of  any  other  keys." 

"  The  servant  is  in  charge  there  now?  "  Alan  asked. 

"  Just    now    there    is    no    one    in    the    house.     The 


56  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

servant,  after  your  father  disappeared,  thought  that,  if 
he  had  merely  gone  away,  he  might  have  gone  back  to 
his  birthplace  near  Manistique,  and  he  went  up  there 
to  look  for  him.  I  had  a  wire  from  him  to-day  that  he 
had  not  found  him  and  was  coming  back." 

Sherrill  waited  a  moment  to  see  whether  there  was 
anything  more  Alan  wanted  to  ask ;  then  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER  IV 


AS  the  door  closed  behind  Sherrill,  Alan  went  over 
to  the  dresser  and  picked  up  the  key  which  Sher- 
rill had  left.  It  was,  he  saw,  a  flat  key  of  a  sort 
common  twenty  years  before,  not  of  the  more  recent 
corrugated  shape.  As  he  looked  at  it  and  then  away 
from  it,  thoughtfully  turning  it  over  and  over  in  his 
fingers,  it  brought  no  sense  of  possession  to  him.  Sher- 
rill had  said  the  house  was  his,  had  been  given  him  by  his 
father;  but  that  fact  could  not  actually  make  it  his  in 
his  realization.  He  could  not  imagine  himself  owning 
such  a  house  or  what  he  would  do  with  it  if  it  were  his. 
He  put  the  key,  after  a  moment,  on  the  ring  with  two  or 
three  other  keys  he  had,  and  dropped  them  into  his 
pocket ;  then  he  crossed  to  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

He  found,  as  he  tried  now  to  disentangle  the  events 
of  the  afternoon,  that  from  them,  and  especially  from 
his  last  interview  with  Sherrill,  two  facts  stood  out  most 
clearly.  The  first  of  these  related  more  directly  to  his 
father  —  to  Benjamin  Corvet.  When  such  a  man  as 
Benjamin  Corvet  must  have  been,  disappears — when, 
without  warning  and  without  leaving  any  account  of 
himself  he  vanishes  from  among  those  who  knew  him  — 
the  persons  most  closely  interested  pass  through  three 
stages  of  anxiety.  They  doubt  first  whether  the  dis- 
appearance is  real  and  whether  inquiry  on  their  part 


58  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

will  not  be  resented ;  they  waken  next  to  realization  that 
the  man  is  actually  gone,  and  that  something  must  be 
done;  the  third  stage  is  open  and  public  inquiry. 
Whatever  might  be  the  nature  of  the  information  Sher- 
rill  was  withholding  from  him,  Alan  saw  that  its  effect 
on  Sherrill  had  been  to  shorten  very  greatly  Sherrill's 
time  of  doubt  as  to  Corvet's  actual  disappearance.  The 
Sherrills  —  particularly  Sherrill  himself  —  had  been 
in  the  second  stage  of  anxiety  when  Alan  came;  they 
had  been  awaiting  Alan's  arrival  in  the  belief  that  Alan 
could  give  them  information  which  would  show  them 
what  must  be  "  done  "  about  Corvet.  Alan  had  not 
been  able  to  give  them  this  information ;  but  his  coming, 
and  his  interview  with  Sherrill,  had  strongly  influenced 
Sherrill's  attitude.  Sherrill  had  shrunk,  still  more 
definitely  and  consciously,  after  that,  from  prying  into 
the  affairs  of  his  friend ;  he  had  now,  strangely,  almost 
withdrawn  himself  from  the  inquiry,  and  had  given  it 
over  to  Alan. 

Sherrill  had  spoken  of  the  possibility  that  something 
might  have  "  happened  "  to  Covert ;  but  it  was  plain 
he  did  not  believe  he  had  met  with  actual  violence.  He 
had  left  it  to  Alan  to  examine  Corvet's  house;  but  he 
had  not  urged  Alan  to  examine  it  at  once;  he  had  left 
the  time  of  the  examination  to  be  determined  by  Alan. 
This  showed  clearly  that  Sherrill  believed  —  perhaps 
had  sufficient  reason  for  believing  —  that  Corvet  had 
simply  "  gone  away."  The  second  of  Alan's  two  facts 
related  even  more  closely  and  personally  to  Alan  him- 
self. Corvet,  Sherrill  had  said,  had  married  in  1889. 
But  Sherrill  in  long  knowledge  of  his  friend,  had  shown 
firm  conviction  that  there  had  been  no  mere  vulgar 
liaison  in  Corvet's  life.  Did  this  mean  that  there  might 


"  ARRIVED  SAFE ;  WELL  "  59 

have  been  some  previous  marriage  of  Alan's  father  — 
some  marriage  which  had  strangely  overlapped  and  nul- 
lified his  public  marriage?  In  that  case,  Alan  could 
be,  not  only  in  fact  but  legally,  Corvet's  son ;  and  such 
things  as  this,  Alan  knew,  had  sometimes  happened, 
and  had  happened  by  a  strange  combination  of  events, 
innocently  for  all  parties.  Corvet's  public  separation 
from  his  wife,  Sherrill  had  said,  had  taken  place  in 
1897,  but  the  actual  separation  between  them  might, 
possibly,  have  taken  place  long  before  that. 

Alan  resolved  to  hold  these  questions  in  abeyance ;  he 
would  not  accept  or  grant  the  stigma  which  his  rela- 
tionship to  Corvet  seemed  to  attach  to  himself  until  it 
had  been  proved  to  him.  He  had  come  to  Chicago  ex- 
pecting, not  to  find  that  there  had  never  been  anything 
wrong,  but  to  find  that  the  wrong  had  been  righted  in 
some  way  at  last.  But  what  was  most  plain  of  all  to 
him,  from  what  Sherrill  had  told  him,  was  that  the 
wrong  —  whatever  it  might  be  —  had  not  been  righted ; 
it  existed  still. 

The  afternoon  had  changed  swiftly  into  night;  dusk 
had  been  gathering  during  his  last  talk  with  Sherrill, 
so  that  he  hardly  had  been  able  to  see  Sherrill's  face, 
and  just  after  Sherrill  had  left  him,  full  dark  had  come. 
Alan  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  been  sitting  in  the 
darkness  thinking  out  these  things ;  but  now  a  little 
clock  which  had  been  ticking  steadily  in  the  blackness 
tinkled  six.  Alan  heard  a  knock  at  his  door,  and  when 
it  was  repeated,  he  called,  *'  Come  in." 

The  light  which  came  in  from  the  hall,  as  the  door 
was  opened,  showed  a  man  servant.  The  man,  after  a 
respectful  inquiry,  switched  on  the  light.  He  crossed 
into  the  adjoining  room  —  a  bedroom  ;  the  room  where 


60  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Alan  was,  he  thought,  must  be  a  dressing  room,  and 
there  was  a  bath  between.  Presently  the  man  reap- 
peared, and  moved  softly  about  the  room,  unpacking 
Alan's  suitcase.  He  hung  Alan's  other  suit  in  the  closet 
on  hangers;  he  put  the  linen,  except  for  one  shirt,  in 
the  dresser  drawers,  and  he  put  Alan's  few  toilet  things 
with  the  ivory-backed  brushes  and  comb  and  other 
articles  on  the  dressing  stand. 

•  Alan  watched  him  queerly;  no  one  except  himself 
ever  had  unpacked  Alan's  suitcase  before ;  the  first  time 
he  had  gone  away  to  college  —  it  was  a  brand  new  suit- 
case then  — "  mother  "  had  packed  it ;  after  that  first 
time,  Alan  had  packed  and  unpacked  it.  It  gave  him 
an  odd  feeling  now  to  see  some  one  else  unpacking  his 
things.  The  man,  having  finished  and  taken  everything 
out,  continued  to  look  in  the  suitcase  for  something 
else. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  finally,  "but  I  cannot 
find  your  buttons." 

"  I've  got  them  on,"  Alan  said.  He  took  them  out 
and  gave  them  to  the  valet  with  a  smile ;  it  was  good  to 
have  something  to  smile  at,  if  it  was  only  the  realiza- 
tion that  he  never  had  thought  before  of  any  one's  hav- 
ing more  than  one  set  of  buttons  for  ordinary  shirts. 
Alan  wondered,  with  a  sort  of  trepidation,  whether  the 
man  would  expect  to  stay  and  help  him  dress;  but  he 
only  put  the  buttons  in  the  clean  shirt  and  reopened  the 
dresser  drawers  and  laid  out  a  change  of  things. 

"Is  there  anything  else,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  Alan  said. 

"  I  was  to  tell  you,  sir,  Mr.  Sherrill  is  sorry  he  can- 
not be  at  home  to  dinner  to-night.  Mrs.  Sherrill  and 
Miss  Sherrill  will  be  here.  Dinner  is  at  seven,  sir." 


"ARRIVED  SAFE;  WELL"  61 

Alan  dressed  slowly,  after  the  man  had  gone ;  and  at 
one  minute  before  seven  he  went  down-stairs. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  lower  hall  and,  after  an  in- 
stant of  irresolution  and  a  glance  into  the  empty 
drawing-room,  he  turned  into  the  small  room  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hall.  A  handsome,  stately,  rather 
large  woman,  whom  he  found  there,  introduced  herself 
to  him  formally  as  Mrs.  Sherrill. 

He  knew  from  Sherrill's  mention  of  the  year  of  their 
marriage  that  Mrs.  Sherrill's  age  must  be  about  forty- 
five,  but  if  he  had  not  known  this,  he  would  have  thought 
her  ten  years  younger.  In  her  dark  eyes  and  her  care- 
fully dressed,  coal-black  hair,  and  in  the  contour  of  her 
youthful  looking,  handsome  face,  he  could  not  find  any 
such  pronounced  resemblance  to  her  daughter  as  he  had 
seen  in  Lawrence  Sherrill.  Her  reserved,  yet  almost 
too  casual  acceptance  of  Alan's  presence,  told  him  that 
she  knew  all  the  particulars  about  himself  which  Sher- 
rill had  been  able  to  give ;  and  as  Constance  came  down 
the  stairs  and  joined  them  half  a  minute  later,  Alan 
was  certain  that  she  also  knew. 

Yet  there  was  in  her  manner  toward  Alan  a  difference 
from  that  of  her  mother  —  a  difference  which  seemed 
almost  opposition.  Not  that  Mrs.  Sherrill's  was  un- 
friendly or  critical ;  rather,  it  was  kind  with  the  sort  of 
reserved  kindness  which  told  Alan,  almost  as  plainly  as 
words,  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  hold  so  charitable 
a  conviction  in  regard  to  Corvet's  relationship  with 
Alan  as  her  husband  held,  but  that  she  would  be  only 
the  more  considerate  to  Alan  for  that.  It  was  this 
kindness  which  Constance  set  herself  to  oppose,  and 
which  she  opposed  as  reservedly  and  as  subtly  as  it  was 
expressed.  It  gave  Alan  a  strange,  exhilarating  sensa- 


62  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

tion  to  realize  that,  as  the  three  talked  together,  this 
girl  was  defending  him. 

Not  him  alone,  of  course,  or  him  chiefly.  It  was 
Benjamin  Corvet,  her  friend,  whom  she  was  defending 
primarily;  yet  it  was  Alan  too;  and  all  went  on  with- 
out a  word  about  Benjamin  Corvet  or  his  affairs  being 
spoken. 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  they  went  into  the  great 
dining-room,  where  the  table  with  its  linen,  silver,  and 
china  gleamed  under  shaded  lights.  The  oldest  and 
most  dignified  of  the  three  men  servants  who  waited 
upon  them  in  the  dining-room  Alan  thought  must  be  a 
butler  —  a  species  of  creature  of  whom  Alan  had  heard 
but  never  had  seen ;  the  other  servants,  at  least,  received 
and  handed  things  through  him,  and  took  their  orders 
from  him.  As  the  silent-footed  servants  moved  about, 
and  Alan  kept  up  a  somewhat  strained  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Sherrill  —  a  conversation  in  which  no  refer- 
ence to  his  own  affairs  was  yet  made  —  he  wondered 
whether  Constance  and  her  mother  always  dressed  for 
dinner  in  full  evening  dress  as  now,  or  whether  they 
were  going  out.  A  word  from  Constance  to  her  mother 
told  him  this  latter  was  the  case,  and  while  it  did  not 
give  complete  answer  to  his  internal  query,  it  showed 
him  his  first  glimpse  of  social  engagements  as  a  part  of 
the  business  of  life.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Benjamin 
Corvet,  SherrilPs  close  friend,  had  disappeared  —  or 
perhaps  because  he  had  disappeared  and,  as  yet,  it  was 
not  publicly  known  —  their  and  Sherrill's  engagements 
had  to  be  fulfilled. 

What  Sherrill  had  told  Alan  of  his  father  had  been 
iterating  itself  again  and  again  in  Alan's  thoughts; 
now  he  recalled  that  Sherrill  had  said  that  his  daughter 


«  ARRIVED  SAFE ;  WELL  "  63 

believed  that  Corvet's  disappearance  had  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  her.  Alan  had  wondered  at  the  mo- 
ment how  that  could  be;  and  as  he  watched  her  across 
the  table  and  now  and  then  exchanged  a  comment  with 
her,  it  puzzled  him  still  more.  He  had  opportunity  to 
ask  her  when  she  waited  with  him  in  the  library,  after 
dinner  was  finished  and  her  mother  had  gone  up-stairs ; 
but  he  did  not  see  then  how  to  go  about  it. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said  to  him,  "  that  we  can't  be  home 
to-night ;  but  perhaps  you  would  rather  be  alone?  " 

He  did  not  answer  that. 

"  Have  you  a  picture  here,  Miss  Sherrill,  of  —  my 
father?"  he  asked. 

"  Uncle  Benny  had  had  very  few  pictures  taken ;  but 
there  is  one  here." 

She  went  into  the  study,  and  came  back  with  a  book 
open  at  a  half-tone  picture  of  Benjamin  Corvet.  Alan 
took  it  from  her  and  carried  it  quickly  closer  to  the 
light.  The  face  that  looked  up  to  him  from  the  heavily 
glazed  page  was  regular  of  feature,  handsome  in  a  way, 
and  forceful.  There  were  imagination  and  vigor  of 
thought  in  the  broad,  smooth  forehead ;  the  eyes  were 
strangely  moody  and  brooding;  the  mouth  was  gentle, 
rather  kindly ;  it  was  a  queerly  impelling,  haunting 
face.  This  was  his  father !  But,  as  Alan  held  the  pic- 
ture, gazing  down  upon  it,  the  only  emotion  which  came 
to  him  was  realization  that  he  felt  none.  He  had  not 
expected  to  know  his  father  from  strangers  on  the 
street;  but  he  had  expected,  when  told  that  his  father 
was  before  him,  to  feel  through  and  through  him  the  call 
of  a  common  blood.  Now,  except  for  consternation  at 
his  own  lack  of  feeling,  he  had  no  emotion  of  any  sort ; 
he  could  not  attach  to  this  man,  because  he  bore  the 


64  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

name  which  some  one  had  told  him  was  his  father's,  the 
passions  which,  when  dreaming  of  his  father,  he  had 
felt. 

As  he  looked  up  from  the  picture  to  the  girl  who  had 
given  it  to  him,  startled  at  himself  and  believing  she 
must  think  his  lack  of  feeling  strange  and  unnatural,  he 
surprised  her  gazing  at  him  with  wetness  in  her  eyes. 
He  fancied  at  first  it  must  be  for  his  father,  and  that 
the  picture  had  brought  back  poignantly  her  fears. 
But  she  was  not  looking  at  the  picture,  but  at  him ;  and 
when  his  eyes  met  hers,  she  quickly  turned  away. 

His  own  eyes  filled,  and  he  choked.  He  wanted  to 
thank  her  for  her  manner  to  him  in  the  afternoon,  for 
defending  his  father  and  him,  as  she  had  at  the  dinner 
table,  and  now  for  this  unplanned,  impulsive  sympathy 
when  she  saw  how  he  had  not  been  able  to  feel  for  this 
man  who  was  his  father  and  how  he  was  dismayed  by  it. 
But  he  could  not  put  his  gratitude  in  words. 

A  servant's  voice  came  from  the  door,  startling  him. 

"  Mrs.  Sherrill  wishes  you  told  she  is  waiting,  Miss 
Sherrill." 

"I'll  be  there  at  once."  Constance,  also,  seemed 
startled  and  confused ;  but  she  delayed  and  looked  back 
to  Alan. 

"  If  —  if  we  fail  to  find  your  father,"  she  said,  "  I 
want  to  tell  you  what  a  man  he  was." 

"  Will  you?  "  Alan  asked.     "  Will  you?  " 

She  left  him  swiftly,  and  he  heard  her  mother's  voice 
in  the  hall.  A  motor  door  closed  sharply,  after  a 
minute  or  so ;  then  the  house  door  closed.  Alan  stood 
still  a  moment  longer,  then,  remembering  the  book  which 
he  held,  he  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  light,  and  read  the 
short,  dry  biography  of  his  father  printed  on  the  page 


"  ARRIVED  SAFE ;  WELL  "  65 

opposite  the  portrait.  It  summarized  in  a  few  hundred 
words  his  father's  life.  He  turned  to  the  cover  of  the 
book  and  read  its  title,  "Year  Book  of  the  Great 
Lakes,"  and  a  date  of  five  years  before ;  then  he  looked 
through  it.  It  consisted  in  large  part,  he  saw,  merely 
of  lists  of  ships,  their  kind,  their  size,  the  date  when 
they  were  built,  and  their  owners.  Under  this  last  head 
he  saw  some  score  of  times  the  name  "  Corvet,  Sherrill 
and  Spearman."  There  was  a  separate  list  of  engines 
and  boilers,  and  when  they  had  been  built  and  by  whom. 
There  was  a  chronological  table  of  events  during  the 
year  upon  the  lakes.  Then  he  came  to  a  part  headed 
"  Disasters  of  the  Year,"  and  he  read  some  of  them ; 
they  were  short  accounts,  drily  and  unfeelingly  put, 
but  his  blood  thrilled  to  these  stories  of  drowning,  freez- 
ing, blinded  men  struggling  against  storm  and  ice  and 
water,  and  conquering  or  being  conquered  by  them. 
Then  he  came  to  his  father's  picture  and  biography 
once  more  and,  with  it,  to  pictures  of  other  lakemen 
and  their  biographies.  He  turned  to  the  index  and 
looked  for  Sherrill's  name,  and  then  Spearman's ;  find- 
ing they  were  not  in  the  book,  he  read  some  of  the  other 
ones. 

There  was  a  strange  similarity,  he  found,  in  these 
biographies,  among  themselves  as  well  as  to  that  of  his 
father.  These  men  had  had,  the  most  of  them,  no  tra- 
dition of  seamanship,  such  as  Sherrill  had  told  him  he 
himself  had  had.  They  had  been  sons  of  lumbermen, 
of  farmers,  of  mill  hands,  miners,  or  fishermen.  They 
had  been  very  young  for  the  most  part,  when  they  had 
heard  and  answered  the  call  of  the  lakes  —  the  ever- 
swelling,  fierce  demand  of  lumber,  grain,  and  ore  for 
outlet;  and  they  had  lived  hard;  life  had  been  violent, 


66  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

and  raw,  and  brutal  to  them.  They  had  sailed  ships, 
and  built  ships,  and  owned  and  lost  them;  they  had 
fought  against  nature  and  against  man  to  keep  their 
ships,  and  to  make  them  profitable,  and  to  get  more  of 
them.  In  the  end  a  few,  a  very  few  comparatively,  had 
survived;  by  daring,  by  enterprise,  by  taking  great 
chances,  they  had  thrust  their  heads  above  those  of 
their  fellows;  they  had  come  to  own  a  half  dozen,  a 
dozen,  perhaps  a  score  of  bottoms,  and  to  have  incomes 
of  fifty,  of  a  hundred,  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
a  year. 

Alan  shut  the  book  and  sat  thoughtful.  He  felt 
strongly  the  immensity,  the  power,  the  grandeur  of  all 
this;  but  he  felt  also  its  violence  and  its  fierceness. 
What  might  there  not  have  been  in  the  life  of  his  father 
who  had  fought  up  and  made  a  way  for  himself  through 
such  things? 

The  tall  clock  in  the  hall  struck  nine.  He  got  up 
and  went  out  into  the  hall  and  asked  for  his  hat  and 
coat.  When  they  had  been  brought  him,  he  put  them 
on  and  went  out. 

»  The  snow  had  stopped  some  time  before ;  a  strong  and 
increasing  wind  had  sprung  up,  which  Alan,  with  knowl- 
edge of  the  wind  across  his  prairies,  recognized  as  an 
aftermath  of  the  greater  storm  that  had  produced  it ; 
for  now  the  wind  was  from  the  opposite  direction  — 
from  the  west.  He  could  see  from  the  Sherrills'  door- 
step, when  he  looked  toward  the  lighthouse  at  the  har- 
bor mouth  winking  red,  white,  red,  white,  at  him,  that 
this  offshore  wind  was  causing  some  new  commotion  and 
upheaval  among  the  ice-floes;  they  groaned  and  la- 
bored and  fought  against  the  opposing  pressure  of  the 
waves,  under  its  urging. 


"ARRIVED  SAFE;  WELL"  67 

He  went  down  the  steps  and  to  the  corner  and  turned 
west  to  Astor  Street.  When  he  reached  the  house  of 
his  father,  he  stopped  under  a  street-lamp,  looking  up 
at  the  big,  stern  old  mansion  questioningly.  It  had 
taken  on  a  different  look  for  him  since  he  had  heard 
Sherrill's  account  of  his  father ;  there  was  an  appeal  to 
him  that  made  his  throat  grow  tight,  in  its  look  of  being 
unoccupied,  in  the  blank  stare  of  its  unlighted  windows 
which  contrasted  with  the  lighted  windows  in  the  houses 
on  both  sides,  and  in  the  slight  evidences  of  disrepair 
about  it.  He  waited  many  minutes,  his  hand  upon  the 
key  in  his  pocket;  yet  he  could  not  go  in,  but  instead 
walked  on  down  the  street,  his  thoughts  and  feelings  in 
a  turmoil.- 

He  could  not  call  up  any  sense  that  the  house  was  his, 
any  more  than  he  had  been  able  to  when  Sherrill  had 
told  him  of  it.  He  own  a  house  on  that  street!  Yet 
was  that  in  itself  any  more  remarkable  than  that  he 
should  be  the  guest,  the  friend  of  such  people  as  the 
Sherrills?  No  one  as  yet,  since  Sherrill  had  told  him 
he  was  Corvet's  son,  had  called  him  by  name ;  when  they 
did,  what  would  they  call  him?  Alan  Conrad  still? 
Or  Alan  Corvet? 

He  noticed,  up  a  street  to  the  west,  the  lighted  sign 
of  a  drug  store  and  turned  up  that  way;  he  had 
promised,  he  had  recollected  now,  to  write  to  ... 
those  in  Kansas  —  he  could  not  call  them  "  father  " 
and  "  mother  "  any  more  —  and  tell  them  what  he  had 
discovered  as  soon  as  he  arrived.  He  could  not  tell 
them  that,  but  he  could  write  them  at  least  that  he  had 
arrived  safely  and  was  well.  He  bought  a  postcard  in 
the  drug  store,  and  wrote  just,  "Arrived  safely;  am 
well "  to  John  Welton  in  Kansas.  There  was  a  little 


68  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

vending  machine  upon  the  counter,  and  he  dropped  in  a 
penny  and  got  a  box  of  matches  and  put  them  in  his 
pocket. 

He  mailed  the  card  and  turned  back  to  Astor  Street ; 
and  he  walked  more  swiftly  now,  having  come  to  his 
decision,  and  only  shot  one  quick  look  up  at  the  house 
as  he  approached  it.  With  what  had  his  father  shut 
himself  up  within  that  house  for  twenty  years?  And 
was  it  there  still?  And  was  it  from  that  that  Benja- 
min Corvet  had  fled?  He  saw  no  one  in  the  street,  and 
was  certain  no  one  was  observing  him  as,  taking  the  key 
from  his  pocket,  he  ran  up  the  steps  and  unlocked  the 
outer  door.  Holding  this  door  open  to  get  the  light 
from  the  street  lamp,  he  fitted  the  key  into  the  inner 
door;  then  he  closed  the  outer  door.  For  fully  a 
minute,  with  fast  beating  heart  and  a  sense  of  expecta- 
tion of  he  knew  not  what,  he  kept  his  hand  upon  the  key 
before  he  turned  it ;  then  he  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  into  the  dark  and  silent  house. 


CHAPTER  V 

AN  ENCOUNTER 

ALAN,  standing  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall,  felt  in 
his  pocket  for  his  matches  and  struck  one  on  the 
box.  The  light  showed  the  hall  in  front  of  him, 
reaching  back  into  some  vague,  distant  darkness,  and 
great  rooms  with  wide  portiered  doorways  gaping  on 
both  sides.  He  turned  into  the  room  upon  his  right, 
glanced  to  see  that  the  shades  were  drawn  on  the  win- 
dows toward  the  street,  then  found  the  switch  and 
turned  on  the  electric  light. 

As  he  looked  around,  he  fought  against  his  excite- 
ment and  feeling  of  expectancy ;  it  was  —  he  told  him- 
self —  after  all,  merely  a  vacant  house,  though  bigger 
and  more  expensively  furnished  than  any  he  ever  had 
been  in  except  the  Sherrills ;  and  SherrilPs  statement  to 
him  had  implied  that  anything  there  might  be  in  it  which 
could  give  the  reason  for  his  father's  disappearance 
would  be  probably  only  a  paper,  a  record  of  some  kind. 
It  was  unlikely  that  a  thing  so  easily  concealed  as  that 
could  be  found  by  him  on  his  first  examination  of  the 
place;  what  he  had  come  here  for  now  —  he  tried  to 
make  himself  believe  —  was  merely  to  obtain  whatever 
other  information  it  could  give  him  about  his  father  and 
the  way  his  father  had  lived,  before  Sherrill  and  he  had 
any  other  conversation. 

Alan  had  not  noticed,  when  he  stepped  into  the  hall 


70  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

in  the  morning,  whether  the  house  then  had  been  heated ; 
now  he  appreciated  that  it  was  quite  cold  and,  prob- 
ably, had  been  cold  for  the  three  days  since  his  father 
had  gone,  and  his  servant  had  left  to  look  for  him. 
Coming  from  the  street,  it  was  not  the  chilliness  of  the 
house  he  felt  but  the  stillness  of  the  dead  air;  when  a 
house  is  heated,  there  is  always  some  motion  of  the  air, 
but  this  air  was  stagnant.  Alan  had  dropped  his  hat 
on  a  chair  in  the  hall ;  he  unbuttoned  his  overcoat  but 
kept  it  on,  and  stuffed  his  gloves  into  his  pocket. 

A  light  in  a  single  room,  he  thought,  would  not  excite 
curiosity  or  attract  attention  from  the  neighbors  or 
any  one  passing  in  the  street;  but  lights  in  more  than 
one  room  might  do  that.  He  resolved  to  turn  off  the 
light  in  each  room  as  he  left  it,  before  lighting  the  next 
one. 

It  had  been  a  pleasant  as  well  as  a  handsome  house, 
if  he  could  judge  by  the  little  of  it  he  could  see,  before 
the  change  had  come  over  his  father.  The  rooms  were 
large  with  high  ceilings.  The  one  where  he  stood, 
obviously  was  a  library;  bookshelves  reached  three 
quarters  of  the  way  to  the  ceiling  on  three  of  its  walls 
except  where  they  were  broken  in  two  places  by  door- 
ways, and  in  one  place  on  the  south  wall  by  an  open 
fireplace.  There  was  a  big  library  table-desk  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  and  a  stand  with  a  shaded  lamp 
upon  it  nearer  the  fireplace.  A  leather-cushioned  Mor- 
ris chair  —  a  lonely,  meditative-looking  chair  —  was  by 
the  stand  and  at  an  angle  toward  the  hearth;  the  rug 
in  front  of  it  was  quite  worn  through  and  showed  the 
floor  underneath.  A  sympathy  toward  his  father, 
which  Sherrill  had  not  been  able  to  make  him  feel,  came 
to  Alan  as  he  reflected  how  many  days  and  nights  Ben- 


AN  ENCOUNTER  71 

jamin  Corvet  must  have  passed  reading  or  thinking  in 
that  chair  before  his  restless  feet  could  have  worn  away 
the  tough,  Oriental  fabric  of  the  rug. 

There  were  several  magazines  on  the  top  of  the  large 
desk,  some  unwrapped,  some  still  in  their  wrappers ; 
Alan  glanced  at  them  and  saw  that  they  all  related  to 
technical  and  scientific  subjects.  The  desk  evidently 
had  been  much  used  and  had  many  drawers ;  Alan  pulled 
one  open  and  saw  that  it  was  full  of  papers ;  but  his 
sensation  as  he  touched  the  top  one  made  him  shut  the 
drawer  again  and  postpone  prying  of  that  sort  until 
he  had  looked  more  thoroughly  about  the  house. 

He  went  to  the  door  of  the  connecting  room  and 
looked  into  it.  This  room,  dusky  in  spite  of  the  light 
which  shone  past  him  through  the  wide  doorway,  was 
evidently  another  library ;  or  rather  it  appeared  to  have 
been  the  original  library,  and  the  front  room  had  been 
converted  into  a  library  to  supplement  it.  The  book- 
cases here  were  built  so  high  that  a  little  ladder  on 
wheels  was  required  for  access  to  the  top  shelves.  Alan 
located  the  light  switch  in  the  room ;  then  he  returned, 
switched  off  the  light  in  the  front  room,  crossed  in  the 
darkness  into  the  second  room,  and  pressed  the  switch. 

A  weird,  uncanny,  half  wail,  half  moan,  coming  from 
the  upper  hall,  suddenly  filled  the  house.  Its  unexpect- 
edness and  the  nature  of  the  sound  stirred  the  hair  upon 
his  head,  and  he  started  back ;  then  he  pressed  the  switch 
again,  and  the  noise  stopped.  He  lighted  another 
match,  found  the  right  switch,  and  turned  on  the  light. 
Only  after  discovering  two  long  tiers  of  white  and  black 
keys  against  the  north  wall  did  Alan  understand  that 
the  switch  must  control  the  motor  working  the  bellows 
of  an  organ  which  had  pipes  in  the  upper  hall ;  it  was 


72  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  sort  of  organ  that  can  be  played  either  with  fingers 
or  by  means  of  a  paper  roll ;  a  book  of  music  had  fallen 
upon  the  keys,  so  that  one  was  pressed  down,  causing 
the  note  to  sound  when  the  bellows  pumped. 

But  having  accounted  for  the  sound  did  not  immedi- 
ately end  the  start  that  it  had  given  Alan.  He  had  the 
feeling  which  so  often  comes  to  one  in  an  unfamiliar 
and  vacant  house  that  there  was  some  one  in  the  house 
with  him.  He  listened  and  seemed  to  hear  another 
sound  in  the  upper  hall,  a  footstep.  He  went  out 
quickly  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  looked  up  them. 

"  Is  any  one  here  ?  "  he  called.     "  Is  any  one  here  ?  " 

His  voice  brought  no  response.  He  went  half  way 
up  the  curve  of  the  wide  stairway,  and  called  again, 
and  listened;  then  he  fought  down  the  feeling  he  had 
had;  Sherrill  had  said  there  would  be  no  one  in  the 
house,  and  Alan  was  certain  there  was  no  one.  So  he 
went  back  to  the  room  where  he  had  left  the  light. 

The  center  of  this  room,  like  the  room  next  to  it,  was 
occupied  by  a  library  table-desk.  He  pulled  open  some 
of  the  drawers  in  it;  one  or  two  had  blue  prints  and 
technical  drawings  in  them;  the  others  had  only  the 
miscellany  which  accumulates  in  a  room  much  used. 
There  were  drawers  also  under  the  bookcases  all  around 
the  room ;  they  appeared,  when  Alan  opened  some  of 
them,  to  contain  pamphlets  of  various  societies,  and  the 
scientific  correspondence  of  which  Sherrill  had  told  him. 
He  looked  over  the  titles  of  some  of  the  books  on  the 
shelves  —  a  multitude  of  subjects,  anthropology,  ex- 
ploration, deep-sea  fishing,  ship-building,  astronomy. 
The  books  in  each  section  of  the  shelves  seemed  to  corre- 
spond in  subject  with  the  pamphlets  and  correspond- 
ence in  the  drawer  beneath,  and  these,  by  their  dates,  to 


AN  ENCOUNTER  78 

divide  themselves  into  different  periods  during  the 
twenty  years  that  Benjamin  Corvet  had  lived  alone  here. 

Alan  felt  that  seeing  these  things  was  bringing  his 
father  closer  to  him ;  they  gave  him  a  little  of  the  feel- 
ing he  had  been  unable  to  get  when  he  looked  at  his 
father's  picture.  He  could  realize  better  now  the 
lonely,  restless  man,  pursued  by  some  ghost  he  could 
not  kill,  taking  up  for  distraction  one  subject  of  study 
after  another,  exhausting  each  in  turn  until  he  could 
no  longer  make  it  engross  him,  and  then  absorbing  him- 
self in  the  next. 

These  two  rooms  evidently  had  been  the  ones  most 
used  by  his  father;  the  other  rooms  on  this  floor,  as 
Alan  went  into  them  one  by  one,  he  found  spoke  far  less 
intimately  of  Benjamin  Corvet.  A  dining-room  was  in 
the  front  of  the  house  to  the  north  side  of  the  hall ;  a 
service  room  opened  from  it,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
service  room  was  what  appeared  to  be  a  smaller  dining- 
room.  The  service  room  communicated  both  by  dumb 
waiter  and  stairway  with  rooms  below ;  Alan  went  down 
the  stairway  only  far  enough  to  see  that  the  rooms 
below  were  servants'  quarters ;  then  he  came  back, 
turned  out  the  light  on  the  first  floor,  struck  another 
match,  and  went  up  the  stairs  to  the  second  story. 

The  rooms  opening  on  to  the  upper  hall,  it  was  plain 
to  him,  though  their  doors  were  closed,  were  mostly  bed- 
rooms. He  put  his  hand  at  hazard  on  the  nearest  door 
and  opened  it.  As  he  caught  the  taste  and  smell  of 
the  air  in  the  room  —  heavy,  colder,  and  deader  even 
than  the  air  in  the  rest  of  the  house  —  he  hesitated ; 
then  with  his  match  he  found  the  light  switch. 

The  room  and  the  next  one  which  communicated  with 
it  evidently  were  —  or  had  been  —  a  woman's  bedroom 


74  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

and  boudoir.  The  hangings,  which  were  still  swaying 
from  the  opening  of  the  door,  had  taken  permanently 
the  folds  in  which  they  had  hung  for  many  years ;  there 
were  the  scores  of  long-time  idleness,  not  of  use,  in  the 
rugs  and  upholstery  of  the  chairs.  The  bed,  however, 
was  freshly  made  up,  as  though  the  bed  clothing  had 
been  changed  occasionally.  Alan  went  through  the 
bedroom  to  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  and  saw  that  that 
too  had  the  same  look  of  unoccupancy  and  disuse.  On 
the  low  dressing  table  were  scattered  such  articles  as  a 
woman  starting  on  a  journey  might  think  it  not  worth 
while  to  take  with  her.  There  was  no  doubt  that  these 
were  the  rooms  of  his  father's  wife. 

Had  his  father  preserved  them  thus,  as  she  had  left 
them,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  come  back,  permitting 
himself  to  fix  no  time  when  he  abandoned  that  hope,  or 
even  to  change  them  after  he  had  learned  that  she  was 
dead?  Alan  thought  not;  Sherrill  had  said  that  Cor- 
vet  had  known  from  the  first  that  his  separation  from 
his  wife  was  permanent.  The  bed  made  up,  the  other 
things  neglected,  and  evidently  looked  after  or  dusted 
only  at  long  separated  periods,  looked  more  as  though 
Corvet  had  shrunk  from  seeing  them  or  even  thinking  of 
them,  and  had  left  them  to  be  looked  after  wholly  by  the 
servant,  without  ever  being  able  to  bring  himself  to  give 
instructions  that  they  should  be  changed.  Alan  felt 
that  he  would  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  his  father 
never  had  entered  these  ghostlike  rooms  since  the  day 
his  wife  had  left  him. 

On  the  top  of  a  chest  of  high  drawers  in  a  corner 
near  the  dressing  table  were  some  papers.  Alan  went 
over  to  look  at  them ;  they  were  invitations,  notices  of 
concerts  and  of  plays  twenty  years  old  —  the  mail, 


AN  ENCOUNTER  75 

probably,  of  the  morning  she  had  gone  away,  left  where 
her  maid  or  she  herself  had  laid  them,  and  only  picked 
up  and  put  back  there  at  the  times  since  when  the  room 
was  dusted.  As  Alan  touched  them,  he  saw  that  his 
fingers  left  marks  in  the  dust  on  the  smooth  top  of  the 
chest;  he  noticed  that  some  one  else  had  touched  the 
things  and  made  marks  of  the  same  sort  as  he  had  made. 
The  freshness  of  these  other  marks  startled  him ;  they 
had  been  made  within  a  day  or  so.  They  could  not 
have  been  made  by  Sherrill,  for  Alan  had  noticed  that 
Sherrill's  hands  were  slender  and  delicately  formed; 
Corvet,  too,  was  not  a  large  man ;  Alan's  own  hand  was 
of  good  size  and  powerful,  but  when  he  put  his  fingers 
over  the  marks  the  other  man  had  made,  he  found  that 
the  other  hand  must  have  been  larger  and  more  power- 
ful than  his  own.  Had  it  been  Corvet's  servant?  It 
might  have  been,  though  the  marks  seemed  too  fresh 
for  that ;  for  the  servant,  Sherrill  had  said,  had  left  the 
day  Corvet's  disappearance  was  discovered. 

Alan  pulled  open  the  drawers  to  see  what  the  other 
man  might  have  been  after.  It  had  not  been  the  serv- 
ant ;  for  the  contents  of  the  drawers  —  old  brittle  lace 
and  woman's  clothing  —  were  tumbled  as  though  they 
had  been  pulled  out  and  roughly  and  inexpertly  pushed 
back ;  they  still  showed  the  folds  in  which  they  had  lain 
for  years  and  which  recently  had  been  disarranged. 

This  proof  that  some  one  had  been  prying  about  in  the 
house  before  himself  and  since  Corvet  had  gone,  startled 
Alan  and  angered  him.  It  brought  him  suddenly  a 
sense  of  possession  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  feel 
when  Sherrill  had  told  him  the  house  was  his ;  it  brought 
an  impulse  of  protection  of  these  things  about  him. 
Who  had  been  searching  in  Benjamin  Corvet's  —  in 


76  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Alan's  house?  He  pushed  the  drawers  shut  hastily  and 
hurried  across  the  hall  to  the  room  opposite.  In  this 
room  —  plainly  Benjamin  Corvet's  bedroom  —  were  no 
signs  of  intrusion.  He  went  to  the  door  of  the  room 
connecting  with  it,  turned  on  the  light,  and  looked  in. 
It  was  a  smaller  room  than  the  others  and  contained  a 
roll-top  desk  and  a  cabinet.  The  cover  of  the  desk  was 
closed,  and  the  drawers  of  the  cabinet  were  shut  and 
apparently  undisturbed.  Alan  recognized  that  prob- 
ably in  this  ropm  he  would  find  the  most  intimate  and 
personal  things  relating  to  his  father ;  but  before  exam- 
ining it,  he  turned  back  to  inspect  the  bedroom.  \  ' 

It  was  a  carefully  arranged  and  well-cared-for  room, 
plainly  in  constant  use.  A  reading  stand,  with  a  lamp, 
was  beside  the  bed  with  a  book  marked  about  the  middle. 
On  the  dresser  were  hair-brushes  and  a  comb,  and  a  box 
of  razors,  none  of  which  were  missing.  When  Benjamin 
Corvet  had  gone  away,  he  had  not  taken  anything  with 
him,  even  toilet  articles.  With  the  other  things  on  the 
dresser,  was  a  silver  frame  for  a  photograph  with  a 
cover  closed  and  fastened  over  the  portrait;  as  Alan 
took  it  up  and  opened  it,  the  stiffness  of  the  hinges  and 
the  edges  of  the  lid  gummed  to  the  frame  by  disuse, 
showed  that  it  was  long  since  it  had  been  opened.  The 
picture  was  of  a  woman  of  perhaps  thirty  —  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  with  a  refined,  sensi- 
tive, spiritual-looking  face.  The  dress  she  wore  was 
the  same,  Alan  suddenly  recognized,  which  he  had  seen 
and  touched  among  the  things  in  the  chest  of  drawers ; 
it  gave  him  a  queer  feeling  now  to  have  touched  her 
things.  He  felt  instinctively,  as  he  held  the  picture 
and  studied  it,  that  it  could  have  been  no  vulgar  bicker- 
ing between  wife  and  husband,  nor  any  caprice  of  a 


AN  ENCOUNTER  77 

dissatisfied  woman,  that  had  made  her  separate  her- 
self from  her  husband.  The  photographer's  name  was 
stamped  in  one  corner,  and  the  date  — 1894,  the  year 
after  Alan  had  been  born. 

But  Alan  felt  that  the  picture  and  the  condition  of 
her  rooms  across  the  hall  did  not  shed  any  light  on  the 
relations  between  her  and  Benjamin  Corvet;  rather  they 
obscured  them ;  for  his  father  neither  had  put  the  pic- 
ture away  from  him  and  devoted  her  rooms  to  other 
uses,  nor  had  he  kept  the  rooms  arranged  and  ready 
for  her  return  and  her  picture  so  that  he  would  see  it. 
He  would  have  done  one  or  the  other  of  these  things, 
Alan  thought,  if  it  were  she  his  father  had  wronged  — 
or,  at  least,  if  it  were  only  she. 

Alan  reclosed  the  case,  and  put  the  picture  down; 
then  he  went  into  the  room  with  the  desk.  He  tried 
the  cover  of  the  desk,  but  it  appeared  to  be  locked; 
after  looking  around  vainly  for  a  key,  he  tried  again, 
exerting  a  little  more  force,  and  this  time  the  top  went 
up  easily,  tearing  away  the  metal  plate  into  which  the 
claws  of  the  lock  clasped  and  the  two  long  screws  which 
had  held  it.  He  examined  the  lock,  surprised,  and  saw 
that  the  screws  must  have  been  merely  set  into  the  holes ; 
scars  showed  where  a  chisel  or  some  metal  implement 
had  been  thrust  in  under  the  top  to  force  it  up.  The 
pigeonholes  and  little  drawers  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
desk,  as  he  swiftly  opened  them,  he  found  entirely 
empty.  He  hurried  to  the  cabinet ;  the  drawers  of  the 
cabinet  too  had  been  forced,  and  very  recently ;  for  the 
scars  and  the  splinters  of  wood  were  clean  and  fresh. 
These  drawers  and  the  drawers  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
desk  either  were  empty,  or  the  papers  in  them  had  been 
disarranged  and  tumbled  in  confusion,  as  though  some 


78  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

one  had  examined  them  hastily  and  tossed  them  back. 

Sherrill  had  not  done  that,  nor  any  one  who  had  a 
business  to  be  there.  If  Benjamin  Corvet  had  emptied 
some  of  those  drawers  before  he  went  away,  he  would 
not  have  relocked  empty  drawers.  To  Alan,  the  marks 
of  violence  and  roughness  were  unmistakably  the  work 
of  the  man  with  the  big  hands  who  had  left  marks  upon 
the  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers ;  and  the  feeling  that  he 
had  been  in  the  house  very  recently  was  stronger  than 
ever. 

Alan  ran  out  into  the  hall  and  listened ;  he  heard  no 
sound ;  but  he  went  back  to  the  little  room  more  excited 
than  before.  For  what  had  the  other  man  been  search- 
ing? For  the  same  things  which  Alan  was  looking  for? 
And  had  the  other  man  got  them?  Who  might  the 
other  be,  and  what  might  be  his  connection  with  Benja- 
min Corvet?  Alan  had  no  doubt  that  everything  of 
importance  must  have  been  taken  away,  but  he  would 
make  sure  of  that.  He  took  some  of  the  papers  from 
the  drawers  and  began  to  examine  them ;  after  nearly  an 
hour  of  this,  he  had  found  only  one  article  which  ap- 
peared connected  in  any  way  with  what  Sherrill  had 
told  him  or  with  Alan  himself.  In  one  of  the  little 
drawers  of  the  desk  he  found  several  books,  much  worn 
as  though  from  being  carried  in  a  pocket,  and  one  of 
these  contained  a  series  of  entries  stretching  over  several 
years.  These  listed  an  amount  —  $150. —  opposite  a 
series  of  dates  with  only  the  year  and  the  month  given, 
and  there  was  an  entry  for  every  second  month. 

Alan  felt  his  fingers  trembling  as  he  turned  the  pages 
of  the  little  book  and  found  at  the  end  of  the  list  a 
blank,  and  below,  in  the  same  hand  but  in  writing  which 
had  changed  slightly  with  the  passage  of  years,  another 


AN  ENCOUNTER  79 

date  and  the  confirming  entry  of  $1,500.  The  other 
papers  and  books  were  only  such  things  as  might  ac- 
cumulate during  a  lifetime  on  the  water  and  in  business 
—  government  certificates,  manifests,  boat  schedules  of 
times  long  gone  by,  and  similar  papers.  Alan  looked 
through  the  little  book  again  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
It  was,  beyond  doubt,  his  father's  memorandum  of  the 
sums  sent  to  Blue  Rapids  for  Alan ;  it  told  him  that 
here  he  had  been  in  his  father's  thoughts ;  in  this  little 
room,  within  a  few  steps  from  those  deserted  apart- 
ments of  his  wife,  Benjamin  Corvet  had  sent  "Alan's 
dollar" — that  dollar  which  had  been  such  a  subject 
of  speculation  in  his  childhood  for  himself  and  for  all 
the  other  children.  He  grew  warm  at  the  thought  as 
he  began  putting  the  other  things  back  into  the  draw- 
ers. 

He  started  and  straightened  suddenly;  then  he  lis- 
tened attentively,  and  his  skin,  warm  an  instant  before, 
turned  cold  and  prickled.  Somewhere  within  the  house, 
unmistakably  on  the  floor  below  him,  a  door  had 
slammed.  The  wind,  which  had  grown  much  stronger 
in  the  last  hour,  was  battering  the  windows  and  whining 
round  the  corners  of  the  building;  but  the  house  was 
tightly  closed;  it  could  not  be  the  wind  that  had  blown 
the  door  shut.  Some  one  —  it  was  beyond  question 
now,  for  the  realization  was  quite  different  from  the 
feeling  he  had  had  about  that  before  —  was  in  the 
house  with  him.  Had  his  father's  servant  come  back? 
That  was  impossible ;  Sherrill  had  received  a  wire  from 
the  man  that  day,  and  he  could  not  get  back  to  Chicago 
before  the  following  morning  at  the  earliest.  But  the 
servant,  Sherrill  had  said,  was  the  only  other  one  be- 
sides his  father  who  had  a  key.  Was  it  ...  his 


80  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

father  who  had  come  back?  That,  though  not  impos- 
sible, seemed  improbable. 

Alan  stooped  quickly,  unlaced  and  stripped  off  his 
shoes,  and  ran  out  into  the  hall  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  where  he  looked  down  and  listened.  From  here 
the  sound  of  some  one  moving  about  came  to  him  dis- 
tinctly; he  could  see  no  light  below,  but  when  he  ran 
down  to  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  it  became  plain  that 
there  was  a  very  dim  and  flickering  light  in  the  library. 
He  crept  on  farther  down  the  staircase.  His  hands 
were  cold  and  moist  from  his  excitement,  and  his  body 
was  hot  and  trembling. 

Whoever  it  was  that  was  moving  about  down-stairs, 
even  if  he  was  not  one  who  had  a  right  to  be  there,  at 
least  felt  secure  from  interruption.  He  was  going 
with  heavy  step  from  window  to  window;  where  he 
found  a  shade  up,  he  pulled  it  down  brusquely  and  with 
a  violence  which  suggested  great  strength  under  a 
nervous  strain;  a  shade,  which  had  been  pulled  down, 
flew  up,  and  the  man  damned  it  as  though  it  had 
startled  him;  then,  after  an  instant,  he  pulled  it  down 
again. 

Alan  crept  still  farther  down  and  at  last  caught 
sight  of  him.  The  man  was  not  his  father ;  he  was  not 
a  servant;  it  was  equally  sure  at  the  same  time  that 
he  was  not  any  one  who  had  any  business  to  be  in 
the  house  and  that  he  was  not  any  common  house- 
breaker. 

He  was  a  big,  young-looking  man,  with  broad  shoul- 
ders and  very  evident  vigor;  Alan  guessed  his  age  at 
thirty-five ;  he.  was  handsome  —  he  had  a  straight  fore- 
head over  daring,  deep-set  eyes ;  his  nose,  lips,  and  chin 
were  powerfully  formed;  and  he  was  expensively  and 


AN  ENCOUNTER  81 

very  carefully  dressed.  The  light  by  which  Alan  saw 
these  things  came  from  a  flat  little  pocket  searchlight 
that  the  man  carried  in  one  hand,  which  threw  a  little 
brilliant  circle  of  light  as  he  directed  it;  and  now,  as 
the  light  chanced  to  fall  on  his  other  hand  —  powerful 
and  heavily  muscled  —  Alan  recollected  the  look  and 
size  of  the  finger  prints  on  the  chest  of  drawers  up- 
stairs. He  did  not  doubt  that  this  was  the  same  man 
who  had  gone  through  the  desk ;  but  since  he  had  al- 
ready rifled  the  desks,  what  did  he  want  here  now?  As 
the  man  moved  out  of  sight,  Alan  crept  on  down  as  far 
as  the  door  to  the  library;  the  man  had  gone  on  into 
the  rear  room,  and  Alan  went  far  enough  into  the 
library  so  he  could  see  him. 

He  had  pulled  open  one  of  the  drawers  in  the  big 
table  in  the  rear  room  —  the  room  where  the  organ 
was  and  where  the  bookshelves  reached  to  the  ceiling  — 
and  with  his  light  held  so  as  to  show  what  was  in  it, 
he  was  tumbling  over  its  contents  and  examining  them. 
He  went  through  one  after  another  of  the  drawers  of 
the  table  like  this ;  after  examining  them,  he  rose  and 
kicked  the  last  one  shut  disgustedly;  he  stood  looking 
about  the  room  questioningly,  then  he  started  toward 
the  front  room. 

He  cast  the  light  of  his  torch  ahead  of  him ;  but  Alan 
had  time  to  anticipate  his  action  and  to  retreat  to  the 
hall.  He  held  the  hangings  a  little  way  from  the  door 
jamb  so  he  could  see  into  the  room.  If  this  man  were 
the  same  who  had  looted  the  desk  up-stairs,  it  was  plain 
that  he  had  not  procured  there  what  he  wanted  or  all 
of  what  he  wanted ;  and  now  he  did  not  know  where  next 
to  look. 

He  had,  as  yet,  neither  seen  nor  heard  anything  to 


82  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

alarm  him,  and  as  he  went  to  the  desk  in  the  front  room 
and  peered  impatiently  into  the  drawers,  he  slammed 
them  shut,  one  after  another.  He  straightened  and 
stared  about.  "Damn  Ben!  Damn  Ben!"  he  ejacu- 
lated violently  and  returned  to  the  rear  room.  Alan, 
again  following  him,  found  him  on  his  knees  in  front 
of  one  of  the  drawers  under  the  bookcases.  As  he  con- 
tinued searching  through  the  drawers,  his  irritation 
became  greater  and  greater.  He  jerked  one  drawer 
entirely  out  of  its  case,  and  the  contents  flew  in  every 
direction ;  swearing  at  it,  and  damning  "  Ben  "  again, 
he  gathered  up  the  letters.  One  suddenly  caught  his 
attention ;  he  began  reading  it  closely,  then  snapped  it 
back  into  the  drawer,  crammed  the  rest  on  top  of  it, 
and  went  on  to  the  next  of  the  files.  He  searched  in 
this  manner  through  half  a  dozen  drawers,  plainly  find- 
ing nothing  at  all  he  wanted ;  he  dragged  some  of  the 
books  from  their  cases,  felt  behind  them  and  shoved 
back  some  of  the  books  but  dropped  others  on  the  floor 
and  blasphemy  burst  from  him. 

He  cursed  "  Ben  "  again  and  again,  and  himself,  and 
God ;  he  damned  men  by  name,  but  so  violently  and 
incoherently  that  Alan  could  not  make  out  the  names ; 
terribly  he  swore  at  men  living  and  men  "  rotting  in 
Hell."  The  beam  of  light  from  the  torch  in  his  hand 
swayed  aside  and  back  and  forth.  Without  warning, 
suddenly  it  caught  Alan  as  he  stood  in  the  dark  of  the 
front  room ;  and  as  the  dim  white  circle  of  light  gleamed 
into  Alan's  face,  the  man  looked  that  way  and  saw 
him. 

The  effect  of  this  upon  the  man  was  so  strange  and 
so  bewildering  to  Alan  that  Alan  could  only  stare  at 
him.  The  big  man  seemed  to  shrink  into  himself  and 


AN  ENCOUNTER  8S 

to  shrink  back  and  away  from  Alan.  He  roared  out 
something  in  a  bellow  thick  with  fear  and  horror;  he 
seemed  to  choke  with  terror.  There  was  nothing  in 
his  look  akin  to  mere,  surprise  or  alarm  at  realizing 
that  another  was  there  and  had  been  seeing  and  over- 
hearing him.  The  light  which  he  still  gripped  swayed 
back  and  forth  and  showed  him  Alan  again,  and  he 
raised  his  arm  before  his  face  as  he  recoiled. 

The  consternation  of  the  man  was  so  complete  that 
it  checked  Alan's  rush  toward  him ;  he  halted,  then  ad- 
vanced silently  and  watchfully.  As  he  went  forward, 
and  the  light  shone  upon  his  face  again,  the  big  man 
cried  out  hoarsely: 

".Damn  you  —  damn  you,  with  the  hole  above  your 
eye !  The  bullet  got  you !  And  now  you've  got  Ben ! 
But  you  can't  get  me!  Go  back  to  Hell!  You  can't 
get  me!  I'll  get  you  —  I'll  get  you!  You  —  can't 
save  the  Miwaka!  " 

He  drew  back  his  arm  and  with  all  his  might  hurled 
the  flashlight  at  Alan.  It  missed  and  crashed  some- 
where behind  him,  but  did  not  go  out;  the  beam  of 
light  shot  back  and  wavered  and  flickered  over  both  of 
them,  as  the  torch  rolled  on  the  floor.  Alan  rushed 
forward  and,  thrusting  through  the  dark,  his  hand 
struck  the  man's  chest  and  seized  his  coat. 

The  man  caught  at  and  seized  Alan's  arm ;  he  seemed 
to  feel  of  it  and  assure  himself  of  its  reality. 

"Flesh!  Flesh!"  he  roared  in  relief;  and  his  big 
arms  grappled  Alan.  As  they  struggled,  they 
stumbled  and  fell  to  the  floor,  the  big  man  underneath. 
His  hand  shifted  its  hold  and  caught  Alan's  throat ; 
Alan  got  an  arm  free  and,  with  all  his  force,  struck  the 
man's  face.  The  man  struck  back  —  a  heavy  blow  on 


84  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  side  of  Alan's  head  which  dizzied  him  but  left  him 
strength  to  strike  again,  and  his  knuckles  reached  the 
man's  face  once  more,  but  he  got  another  heavy  blow 
in  return.  The  man  was  grappling  no  longer;  he 
swung  Alan  to  one  side  and  off  of  him,  and  rolled  him- 
self away.  He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  dashed  out 
through  the  library,  across  the  hall,  and  into  the 
service  room.  Alan  heard  his  feet  clattering  down  the 
stairway  to  the  floor  beneath.  Alan  got  to  his  feet; 
dizzied  and  not  yet  familiar  with  the  house,  he  blun- 
dered against  a  wall  and  had  to  feel  his  way  along  it  to 
the  service  room ;  as  he  slipped  and  stumbled  down  the 
stairway,  a  door  closed  loudly  at  the  end  of  the  corri- 
dor he  had  seen  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  He  ran 
along  the  corridor  to  the  door;  it  had  closed  with  a 
spring  lock,  and  seconds  passed  while  he  felt  in  the 
dark  for  the  catch ;  he  found  it  and  tore  the  door  open, 
and  came  out  suddenly  into  the  cold  air  of  the  night  in 
a  paved  passageway  beside  the  house  which  led  in  one 
direction  to  the  street  and  in  the  other  to  a  gate  open- 
ing on  the  alley.  He  ran  forward  to  the  street  and 
looked  up  and  down,  but  found  it  empty ;  then  he  ran 
back  to  the  alley.  At  the  end  of  the  alley,  where  it 
intersected  the  cross  street,  the  figure  of  the  man  run- 
ning away  appeared  suddenly  out  of  the  shadows,  then 
disappeared ;  Alan,  following  as  far  as  the  street,  could 
see  nothing  more  of  him ;  this  street  too  was  empty. 

He  ran  a  little  farther  and  looked,  then  he  went  back 
to  the  house.  The  side  door  had  swung  shut  again  and 
latched.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  key  and  went 
around  to  the  front  door.  The  snow  upon  the  steps 
had  been  swept  away,  probably  by  the  servant  who  had 
come  to  the  house  earlier  in  the  day  with  Constant 


AN  ENCOUNTER  85 

Sherrill,  but  some  had  fallen  since ;  the  footsteps  made 
in  the  early  afternoon  had  been  obliterated  by  it,  but 
Alan  could  see  those  he  had  made  that  evening,  and  the 
marks  where  some  one  else  had  gone  into  the  house  and 
not  come  out  again.  In  part  it  was  plain,  therefore, 
what  had  happened :  the  man  had  come  from  the  south, 
for  he  had  not  seen  the  light  Alan  had  had  in  the  north 
and  rear  part  of  the  house;  believing  no  one  was  in  the 
house,  the  man  had  gone  in  through  the  front  door  with 
a  key.  He  had  been  some  one  familiar  with  the  house ; 
for  he  had  known  about  the  side  door  and  how  to  reach 
it  and  that  he  could  get  out  that  way.  This  might 
mean  no  more  than  that  he  was  the  same  who  had 
searched  through  the  house  before ;  but  at  least  it  made 
his  identity  with  the  former  intruder  more  certain. 

Alan  let  himself  in  at  the  front  door  and  turned  on 
the  light  in  the  reading  lamp  in  the  library.  The  elec- 
tric torch  still  was  burning  on  the  floor  and  he  picked 
it  up  and  extinguished  it;  he  went  up-stairs  and 
brought  down  his  shoes.  He  had  seen  a  wood  fire  set 
ready  for  lighting  in  the  library,  and  now  he  lighted 
it  and  sat  before  it  drying  his  wet  socks  before  he  put 
on  his  shoes.  He  was  still  shaking  and  breathing  fast 
from  his  struggle  with  the  man  and  his  chase  after  him, 
and  by  the  strangeness  of  what  had  taken  place. 

When  the  shaft  of  light  from  the  torch  had  flashed 
across  Alan's  face  in  the  dark  library,  the  man  had  not 
taken  him  for  what  he  was  —  a  living  person ;  he  had 
taken  him  for  a  specter.  His  terror  and  the  things  he 
had  cried  out  could  mean  only  that.  The  specter  of 
whom  ?  Not  of  Ben j  amin  Corvet ;  for  one  of  the  things 
Alan  had  remarked  when  he  saw  Benjamin  Corvet's  pic- 
ture was  that  he  himself  did  not  look  at  all  like  his 


86  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

father.  Besides,  what  the  man  had  said  made  it  cer- 
tain that  he  did  not  think  the  specter  was  "  Ben  " ;  for 
the  specter  had  **  got  Ben."  Did  Alan  look  like  some 
one  else,  then?  Like  whom?  Evidently  like  the  man 

—  now  dead  for  he  had  a  ghost  —  who  had  "  got " 
Ben,  in  the  big  man's  opinion.     Who  could  that  be? 

No  answer,  as  yet,  was  possible  to  that.  But  if  he 
did  look  like  some  one,  then  that  some  one  was  — •  or 
had  been  —  dreaded  not  only  by  the  big  man  who  had 
entered  the  house,  but  by  Benjamin  Corvet  as  well. 
"You  got  Ben!"  the  man  had  cried  out.  Got  him? 
How?  "  But  you  can't  get  me !  "  he  had  said.  "  You 

—  with  the  bullet  hole  above  your  eye!"     What  did 
that  mean? 

Alan  got  up  and  went  to  look  at  himself  in  the  mir- 
ror he  had  seen  in  the  hall.  He  was  white,  now  that 
the  flush  of  the  fighting  was  going;  he  probably  had 
been  pale  before  with  excitement,  and  over  his  right 
eye  there  was  a  round,  black  mark.  Alan  looked  down 
at  his  hands ;  a  little  skin  was  off  one  knuckle,  where 
he  had  struck  the  man,  and  his  fingers  were  smudged 
with  a  black  and  sooty  dust.  He  had  smudged  them 
on  the  papers  up-stairs  or  else  in  feeling  his  way  about 
the  dark  house,  and  at  some  time  he  had  touched  his 
forehead  and  left  the  black  mark.  That  had  been  the 
"  bullet  hole." 

The  rest  that  the  man  had  said  had  been  a  reference 
to  some  name;  Alan  had  no  trouble  to  recollect  the 
name  and,  while  he  did  not  understand  it  at  all,  it 
stirred  him  queerly  — "  the  MiwaTca"  What  was 
that?  The  queer  excitement  and  questioning  that  the 
name  brought,  when  he  repeated  it  to  himself,  was  not 
recollection ;  for  he  could  not  recall  ever  having  heard 


J 
AN  ENCOUNTER  87 

the  name  before ;  but  it  was  not  completely  strange  to 
him.  He  could  define  the  excitement  it  stirred  only  in 
that  way. 

He  went  back  to  the  Morris  chair;  his  socks  were 
nearly  dry,  and  he  put  on  his  shoes.  He  got  up  and 
paced  about.  Sherrill  had  believed  that  here  in  this 
house  Benjamin  Corvet  had  left  —  or  might  have  left 
—  a  memorandum,  a  record,  or  an  account  of  some 
sort  which  would  explain  to  Alan,  his  son,  the  blight 
which  had  hung  over  his  life.  Sherrill  had  said  that  it 
could  have  been  no  mere  intrigue,  no  vulgar  personal 
sin;  and  the  events  of  the  night  had  made  that  very 
certain;  for,  plainly,  whatever  was  hidden  in  that 
house  involved  some  one  else  seriously,  desperately. 
There  was  no  other  way  to  explain  the  intrusion  of  the 
sort  of  man  whom  Alan  had  surprised  there  an  hour 
ago. 

The  fact  that  this  other  man  searched  also  did  not 
prove  that  Benjamin  Corvet  had  left  a  record  in  the 
house,  as  Sherrill  believed ;  but  it  certainly  showed  that 
another  person  believed  —  or  feared  —  it.  Whether 
or  not  guilt  had  sent  Benjamin  Corvet  away  four  days 
ago,  whether  or  not  there  had  been  guilt  behind  the 
ghost  which  had  "  got  Ben,"  there  was  guilt  in  the  big 
man's  superstitious  terror  when  he  had  seen  Alan.  A 
bold,  powerful  man  like  that  one,  when  his  conscience 
is  clear,  does  not  see  a  ghost.  And  the  ghost  which  he 
had  seen  had  a  bullet  hole  above  the  brows ! 

Alan  did  not  flatter  himself  that  in  any  physical 
sense  he  had  triumphed  over  that  man ;  so  far  as  it  had 
gone,  his  adversary  had  had  rather  the  better  of  the 
battle ;  he  had  endeavored  to  stun  Alan,  or  perhaps  do 
worse  than  stun;  but  after  the  first  grapple,  his  pur- 


88  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

pose  had  been  to  get  away.  But  he  had  not  fled  from 
Alan ;  he  had  fled  from  discovery  of  who  he  was.  Sher- 
rill  had  told  Alan  of  no  one  whom  he  could  identify 
with  this  man ;  but  Alan  could  describe  him  to  Sherrill. 

Alan  found  a  lavatory  and  washed  and  straightened 
his  collar  and  tie  and  brushed  his  clothes.  There  was 
a  bruise  on  the  side  of  his  head ;  but  though  it  throbbed 
painfully,  it  did  not  leave  any  visible  mark.  He  could 
return  now  to  the  Sherrills'.  It  was  not  quite  mid- 
night but  he  believed  by  this  time  Sherrill  was  probably 
home ;  perhaps  already  he  had  gone  to  bed.  Alan  took 
up  his  hat  and  looked  about  the  house ;  he  was  going  to 
return  and  sleep  here,  of  course ;  he  was  not  going  to 
leave  the  house  unguarded  for  any  long  time  after  this ; 
but,  after  what  had  just  happened,  he  felt  he  could 
leave  it  safely  for  half  an  hour,  particularly  if  he  left 
a  light  burning  within. 

He  did  this  and  stepped  out.  The  wind  from  the 
west  was  blowing  hard,  and  the  night  had  become  bitter 
cold ;  yet,  as  Alan  reached  the  drive,  he  could  see  far 
out  the  tossing  lights  of  a  ship  and,  as  he  went  toward 
the  Sherrills',  he  gazed  out  over  the  roaring  water. 
Often  on  nights  like  this,  he  knew,  his  father  must  have 
been  battling  such  water. 

The  man  who  answered  his  ring  at  the  Sherrills* 
recognized  him  at  once  and  admitted  him;  in  reply  to 
Alan's  question,  the  servant  said  that  Mr.  Sherrill  had 
not  yet  returned.  When  Alan  went  to  his  room,  the 
valet  appeared  and,  finding  that  Alan  was  packing,  the 
man  offered  his  service.  Alan  let  him  pack  and  went 
down-stairs;  a  motor  had  just  driven  up  to  the  house. 

It  proved  to  have  brought  Constance  and  her 
mother;  Mrs.  Sherrill,  after  informing  Alan  that  Mr. 


AN  ENCOUNTER  89 

Sherrill  might  not  return  until  some  time  later,  went 
up-stairs  and  did  not  appear  again.  Constance  fol- 
lowed her  mother  but,  ten  minutes  later  came  down- 
stairs. 

"  You're  not  staying  here  to-night  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  to  your  father,"  Alan  explained, 
"  that  I  believe  I  had  better  go  over  to  the  other 
house." 

She  came  a  little  closer  to  him  in  her  concern. 
"  Nothing  has  happened  here?  " 

"Here?  You  mean  in  this  house?"  Alan  smiled. 
"No;  nothing." 

She  seemed  relieved.  Alan,  remembering  her 
mother's  manner,  thought  he  understood;  she  knew 
that  remarks  had  been  made,  possibly,  which  repeated 
by  a  servant  might  have  offended  him. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  been  a  hard  day  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  It's  certainly  been  unusual,"  Alan  admitted. 

It  had  been  a  hard  day  for  her,  too,  he  observed ;  or 
probably  the  recent  days,  since  her  father's  and  her 
own  good  friend  had  gone,  had  been  trying.  She  was 
tired  now  and  nervously  excited ;  but  she  was  so  young 
that  the  little  signs  of  strain  and  worry,  instead  of 
making  her  seem  older,  only  made  her  youth  more  ap- 
parent. The  curves  of  her  neck  and  her  pretty, 
rounded  shoulders  were  as  soft  as  before;  her  lustrous, 
brown  hair  was  more  beautiful,  and  a  slight  flush  col- 
ored her  clear  skin. 

It  had  seemed  to  Alan,  when  Mrs.  Sherrill  had 
spoken  to  him  a  few  minutes  before,  that  her  manner 
toward  him  had  been  more  reserved  and  constrained 
than  earlier  in  the  evening;  and  he  had  put  that  down 
to  the  lateness  of  the  hour ;  but  now  he  realized  that  she 


90  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

probably  had  been  discussing  him  with  Constance,  and 
that  it  was  somewhat  in  defiance  of  her  mother  that 
Constance  had  come  down  to  speak  with  him  again. 

"  Are  you  taking  any  one  over  to  the  other  house 
with  you  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Any  one  ?  " 

"  A  servant,  I  mean." 

"  No." 

"  Then  you'll  let  us  lend  you  a  man  from  here." 

"You're  awfully  good;  but  I  don't  think  I'll  need 
any  one  to-night.  Mr.  Corvet's  —  my  father's  man  — 
is  coming  back  to-morrow,  I  understand.  I'll  get 
along  very  well  until  then." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  as  she  looked  away.  Her 
shoulders  suddenly  jerked  a  little.  "  I  wish  you'd  take 
some  one  with  you,"  she  persisted.  "  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  you  alone  over  there." 

"  My  father  must  have  been  often  alone  there." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes."  She  looked  at  him 
quickly,  then  away,  checking  a  question.  She  wanted 
to  ask,  he  knew,  what  he  had  discovered  in  that  lonely 
house  which  had  so  agitated  him ;  for  of  course  she  had 
noticed  agitation  in  him.  And  he  had  intended  to  tell 
her  or,  rather,  her  father.  He  had  been  rehearsing  to 
himself  the  description  of  the  man  he  had  met  there  in 
order  to  ask  Sherrill  about  him ;  but  now  Alan  knew 
that  he  was  not  going  to  refer  the  matter  even  to  Sher- 
rill just  yet. 

Sherrill  had  believed  that  Benjamin  Corvet's  disap- 
pearance was  from  circumstances  too  personal  and 
intimate  to  be  made  a  subject  of  public  inquiry;  and 
what  Alan  had  encountered  in  Corvet's  house  had  con- 
firmed that  belief.  Sherrill  further  had  said  that 


AN  ENCOUNTER  91 

Benjamin  Corvet,  if  he  had  wished  Sherrill  to  know 
those  circumstances,  would  have  told  them  to  him;  but 
Corvet  had  not  done  that;  instead,  he  had  sent  for 
Alan,  his  son.  He  had  given  his  son  his  confidence. 

Sherrill  had  admitted  that  he  was  withholding  from 
Alan,  for  the  time  being,  something  that  he  knew  about 
Benjamin  Corvet;  it  was  nothing,  he  had  said,  which 
would  help  Alan  to  learn  about  his  father,  or  what  had 
become  of  him ;  but  perhaps  Sherrill,  not  knowing  these 
other  things,  could  not  speak  accurately  as  to  that. 
Alan  determined  to  ask  Sherrill  what  he  had  been  with- 
holding before  he  told  him  all  of  what  had  happened  in 
Corvet's  house.  There  was  one  other  circumstance 
which  Sherrill  had  mentioned  but  not  explained;  it 
occurred  to  Alan  now. 

"  Miss  Sherrill  — "  he  checked  himself. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  This  afternoon  your  father  said  that  you  believed 
that  Mr.  Corvet's  disappearance  was  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  you ;  he  said  that  he  did  not  think  that  was 
so;  but  do  you  want  to  tell  me  why  you  thought  it?  " 

"Yes;  I  will  tell  you."  She  colored  quickly. 
"  One  of  the  last  things  Mr.  Corvet  did  —  in  fact,  the 
last  thing  we  know  of  his  doing  before  he  sent  for  you 
—  was  to  come  to  me  and  warn  me  against  one  of  my 
friends." 

"Warn  you,  Miss  Sherrill?  How?  I  mean,  warn 
you  against  what?" 

"Against  thinking  too  much  of  him."  She  turned 
away. 

Alan  saw  in  the  rear  of  the  hall  the  man  who  had 
been  waiting  with  the  suitcase.  It  was  after  midnight 
now  and,  for  far  more  than  the  intended  half  hour, 


92  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Alan  had  left  his  father's  house  unwatched,  to  be  en- 
tered by  the  front  door  whenever  the  man,  who  had 
entered  it  before,  returned  with  his  key. 

"  I  think  I'll  come  to  see  your  father  in  the  morning," 
Alan  said,  when  Constance  looked  back  to  him. 

"You  won't  borrow  Simons?"  she  asked  again. 

"  Thank  you,  no." 

"  But  you'll  come  over  here  for  breakfast  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  You  want  me?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I'd  like  to  come  very  much." 

"  Then  I'll  expect  you."  She  followed  him  to  the 
door  when  he  had  put  on  his  things,  and  he  made  no 
objection  when  she  asked  that  the  man  be  allowed  to 
carry  his  bag  around  to  the  other  house.  When  he 
glanced  back,  after  reaching  the  walk,  he  saw  her 
standing  inside  the  door,  watching  through  the  glass 
after  him. 

When  he  had  dismissed  Simons  and  reentered  the 
house  on  Astor  Street,  he  found  no  evidences  of  any 
disturbance  while  he  had  been  gone.  On  the  second 
floor,  to  the  east  of  the  room  which  had  been  his 
father's,  was  a  bedroom  which  evidently  had  been  kept 
as  a  guest  chamber ;  Alan  carried  his  suitcase  there  and 
made  ready  for  bed. 

The  sight  of  Constance  Sherrill  standing  and  watch- 
ing after  him  in  concern  as  he  started  back  to  this 
house,  came  to  him  again  and  again  and,  also,  her 
flush  when  she  had  spoken  of  the  friend  against  whom 
Benjamin  Corvet  had  warned  her.  Who  was  he?  It 
had  been  impossible  at  that  moment  for  Alan  to  ask  her 
more;  besides,  if  he  had  asked  and  she  had  told  him, 


AN  ENCOUNTER  93 

he  would  have  learned  only  a  name  which  he  could  not 
place  yet  in  any  connection  with  her  or  with  Benjamin 
Corvet.  Whoever  he  was,  it  was  plain  that  Constance 
Sherrill  "  thought  of  him  " ;  lucky  man,  Alan  said  to 
himself.  Yet  Corvet  had  warned  her  not  to  think  of 
him.  .  .  . 

Alan  turned  back  his  bed.  It  had  been  for  him  a 
tremendous  day.  Barely  twelve  hours  before  he  had 
come  to  that  house,  Alan  Conrad  from  Blue  Rapids, 
Kansas ;  now  ...  phrases  from  what  Lawrence  Sher- 
rill had  told  him  of  his  father  were  running  through 
his  mind  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  room  to  be  able 
to  hear  any  noise  in  Benjamin  Corvet's  house,  of  which 
he  was  sole  protector.  The  emotion  roused  by  his 
first  sight  of  the  lake  went  through  him  again  as  he 
opened  the  window  to  the  east. 

Now  —  he  was  in  bed  —  he  seemed  to  be  standing,  a 
specter  before  a  man  blaspheming  Benjamin  Corvet 
and  the  souls  of  men  dead.  "  And  the  hole  above  the 
eye !  .  .  .  The  bullet  got  you !  ...  So  it's  you  that 
got  Ben !  .  .  .  I'll  get  you !  .  .  .  You  can't  save  the 
Miwaka!  " 

The  Miiealca!  The  stir  of  that  name  was  stronger 
now  even  than  before ;  it  had  been  running  through  his 
consciousness  almost  constantly  since  he  had  heard  it. 
He  jumped  up  and  turned  on  the  light  and  found  a 
pencil.  He  did  not  know  how  to  spell  the  name  and 
it  was  not  necessary  to  write  it  down;  the  name  had 
taken  on  that  definiteness  and  ineffaceableness  of  a 
thing  which,  once  heard,  can  never  again  be  forgotten. 
But,  in  panic  that  he  might  forget,  he  wrote  it,  guess- 
ing at  the  spelling  —  "  Miwaka." 

It  was  a  name,  of  course;  but  the  name  of  what?     It 


94  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

repeated  and  repeated  itself  to  him,  after  he  got  back 
into  bed,  until  its  very  iteration  made  him  drowsy. 

Outside  the  gale  whistled  and  shrieked.  The  wind, 
passing  its  last  resistance  after  its  sweep  across  the 
prairies  before  it  leaped  upon  the  lake,  battered  and 
clamored  in  its  assault  about  the  house.  But  as  Alan 
became  sleepier,  he  heard  it  no  longer  as  it  rattled  the 
windows  and  howled  under  the  eaves  and  over  the  roof, 
but  as  out  on  the  lake,  above  the  roaring  and  ice- 
crunching  waves,  it  whipped  and  circled  with  its  chill 
the  ice-shrouded  sides  of  struggling  ships.  So,  with 
the  roar  of  surf  and  gale  in  his  ears,  he  went  to  sleep 
with  the  sole  conscious  connection  in  his  mind  between 
himself  and  these  people,  among  whom  Benjamin  Cor- 
vet's  summons  had  brought  him,  the  one  name 
"  Miwaka." 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONSTANCE    SHERRILL 

IN  the  morning  a  great  change  had  come  over  the 
lake.  The  wind  still  blew  freshly,  but  no  longer 
fiercely,  from  the  west ;  and  now,  from  before  the 
beach  beyond  the  drive,  and  from  the  piers  and  break- 
waters at  the  harbor  mouth,  and  from  all  the  western 
shore,  the  ice  had  departed.  Far  out,  a  nearly  indis- 
cernible white  line  marked  the  ice-floe  where  it  was 
traveling  eastward  before  the  wind ;  nearer,  and  with 
only  a  gleaming  crystal  fringe  of  frozen  snow  clinging 
to  the  shore  edge,  the  water  sparkled,  blue  and  dim- 
pling, under  the  morning  sun ;  multitudes  of  gulls, 
hungry  after  the  storm,  called  to  one  another  and 
circled  over  the  breakwaters,  the  piers,  and  out  over 
the  water  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see ;  and  a  half  mile 
off  shore,  a  little  work  boat  —  a  shallop  twenty  feet 
long  —  was  put-put-ing  on  some  errand  along  a  path 
where  twelve  hours  before  no  horsepower  creatable  by 
man  could  have  driven  the  hugest  steamer. 

Constance  Sherrill,  awakened  by  the  sunlight  re- 
flected from  the  water  upon  her  ceiling,  found  nothing 
odd  or  startling  in  this  change ;  it  roused  her  but  did 
not  surprise  her.  Except  for  the  short  periods  of  her 
visits  away  from  Chicago,  she  had  lived  all  her  life  on 
the  shore  of  the  lake  ^  the  water  —  wonderful,  ever 


96  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

altering  —  was  the  first  sight  each  morning.  As  it 
made  wilder  and  more  grim  the  desolation  of  a  stormy 
day,  so  it  made  brighter  and  more  smiling  the  splendor 
of  the  sunshine  and,  by  that  much  more,  influenced  one's 
feelings. 

Constance  held  by  preference  to  the  seagoing  tra- 
ditions of  her  family.  Since  she  was  a  child,  the  lake 
and  the  life  of  the  ships  had  delighted  and  fascinated 
her;  very  early  she  had  discovered  that,  upon  the  lake, 
she  was  permitted  privileges  sternly  denied  upon  land 
—  an  arbitrary  distinction  which  led  her  to  designate 
water,  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  as  her  family's 
"  respectable  element."  For  while  her  father's  invest- 
ments were,  in  part,  on  the  water,  her  mother's  prop- 
erty all  was  on  the  land.  Her  mother,  who  was  a 
Seaton,  owned  property  somewhere  in  the  city,  in  com- 
mon with  Constance's  uncles;  this  property  consisted, 
as  Constance  succeeded  in  ascertaining  about  the  time 
she  was  nine,  of  large,  wholesale  grocery  buildings. 
They  and  the  "  brand  "  had  been  in  the  possession  of 
the  Seaton  family  for  many  years;  both  Constance's 
uncles  worked  in  the  big  buildings  where  the  canning 
was  done;  and,  when  Constance  was  taken  to  visit 
them,  she  found  the  place  most  interesting  —  the  ber- 
ries and  fruit  coming  up  in  great  steaming  cauldrons ; 
the  machines  pushing  the  cans  under  the  enormous 
faucets  where  the  preserves  ran  out  and  then  sealing 
the  cans  and  pasting  the  bright  Seaton  "  brand  "  about 
them.  The  people  there  were  interesting  —  the  girls 
with  flying  fingers  sorting  fruit,  and  the  men  pounding 
the  big  boxes  together;  and  the  great  shaggy-hoofed 
horses  which  pulled  the  huge,  groaning  wagons  were 
most  fascinating.  She  wanted  to  ride  on  one  of  the 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  9T 

wagons ;  but  her  request  was  promptly  and  completely 
squashed. 

It  was  not  "  done  " ;  nor  was  anything  about  the 
groceries  and  the  canning  to  be  mentioned  before  vis- 
itors; Constance  brought  up  the  subject  once  and 
found  out.  It  was  different  about  her  father's  ships. 
She  could  talk  about  them  when  she  wanted  to;  and 
her  father  often  spoke  of  them ;  and  any  one  who  came 
to  the  house  could  speak  about  them.  Ships,  appar- 
ently, were  respectable. 

When  she  went  down  to  the  docks  with  her  father, 
she  could  climb  all  over  them,  if  she  was  only  careful  of 
her  clothes;  she  could  spend  a  day  watching  one  of 
her  father's  boats  discharging  grain  or  another  un- 
loading ore;  and,  when  she  was  twelve,  for  a  great 
treat,  her  father  took  her  on  one  of  the  freighters  to 
Duluth ;  and  for  one  delightful,  wonderful  week  she 
chummed  with  the  captain  and  mates  and  wheelmen  and 
learned  all  the  pilot  signals  and  the  way  the  different 
lighthouses  winked. 

Mr.  Spearman,  who  recently  had  become  a  partner  of 
her  father's,  was  also  on  the  boat  upon  that  trip.  He 
had  no  particular  duty ;  he  was  just  "  an  owner"  like  her 
father ;  but  Constance  observed  that,  while  the  captain 
and  the  mates  and  the  engineers  were  always  polite  and 
respectful  to  her  father,  they  asked  Mr.  Spearman's 
opinion  about  things  in  a  very  different  way  and  paid 
real  attention  —  not  merely  polite  attention  —  when 
he  talked.  He  was  a  most  desirable  sort  of  acqui- 
sition ;  for  he  was  a  friend  who  could  come  to  the  house 
at  any  time,  and  yet  he,  himself,  had  done  all  sorts  of 
exciting  things.  He  had  not  just  gone  to  Harvard 
and  then  become  an  owner,  as  Constance's  father  had ; 


98  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

at  fifteen,  he  had  run  away  from  his  father's  farm  back 
from  the  east  shore  of  little  Traverse  Bay  near  the 
northern  end  of  Lake  Michigan.  At  eighteen,  after 
all  sorts  of  adventures,  he  had  become  mate  of  a  lum- 
ber schooner ;  he  had  "  taken  to  steam  "  shortly  after 
that  and  had  been  an  officer  upon  many  kinds  of  ships. 
Then  Uncle  Benny  had  taken  him  into  partnership. 
Constance  had  a  most  exciting  example  of  what  he 
could  do  when  the  ship  ran  into  a  big  storm  on  Lake 
Superior. 

Coming  into  Whitefish  Bay,  a  barge  had  blundered 
against  the  vessel;  a  seam  started,  and  water  came  in 
so  fast  that  it  gained  on  the  pumps.  Instantly,  Mr. 
Spearman,  not  the  captain,  was  in  command  and,  from 
the  way  he  steered  the  ship  to  protect  the  seam  and 
from  the  scheme  he  devised  to  stay  the  inrush  of 
water,  the  pumps  began  to  gain  at  once,  and  the  ship 
went  into  Duluth  safe  and  dry.  Constance  liked  that 
in  a  man  of  the  sort  whom  people  knew.  For,  as  the 
most  active  partner  —  though  not  the  chief  stock- 
holder—  of  Corvet,  Sherrill  and  Spearman,  almost 
every  one  in  the  city  knew  him.  He  had  his  bachelor 
"  rooms  "  in  one  of  the  newest  and  most  fashionable 
of  the  apartment  buildings  facing  the  lake  just  north 
of  the  downtown  city ;  he  had  become  a  member  of  the 
best  city  and  country  clubs;  and  he  was  welcomed 
quickly  along  the  Drive,  where  the  Sherrills'  mansion 
was  coming  to  be  considered  a  characteristic  "  old " 
Chicago  home. 

But  little  over  forty,  and  appearing  even  younger, 
Spearman  was  distinctly  of  the  new  generation;  and 
Constance  Sherrill  was  only  one  of  many  of  the 
younger  girls  who  found  in  Henry  Spearman  refreshing 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  99 

relief  from  the  youths  who  were  the  sons  of  men  but 
who  could  never  become  men  themselves.  They  were 
nice,  earnest  boys  with  all  sorts  of  serious  Marxian 
ideas  of  establishing  social  justice  in  the  plants  which 
their  fathers  had  built;  and  carrying  the  highest  mo- 
tives into  the  city  or  national  politics.  But  the  indus- 
trial reformers,  Constance  was  quite  certain,  never 
could  have  built  up  the  industries  with  which  they  now, 
so  superiorly,  were  finding  fault ;  the  political  purifiers 
either  failed  of  election  or,  if  elected,  seemed  to  leave 
politics  pretty  much  as  they  had  been  before.  The 
picture  of  Spearman,  instantly  appealed  to  and  in- 
stantly in  charge  in  the  emergency,  remained  and 
became  more  vivid  within  Constance,  because  she  never 
saw  him  except  when  he  dominated. 

And  a  decade  most  amazingly  had  bridged  the  abyss 
which  had  separated  twelve  years  and  thirty-two.  At 
twenty-two,  Constance  Sherrill  was  finding  Henry 
Spearman  —  age  forty-two  —  the  most  vitalizing  and 
interesting  of  the  men  who  moved,  socially,  about  the 
restricted  ellipse  which  curved  down  the  lake  shore  south 
of  the  park  and  up  Astor  Street.  He  had,  very  early, 
recognized  that  he  possessed  the  vigor  and  courage  to 
carry  him  far,  and  he  had  disciplined  himself  until  the 
coarseness  and  roughness,  which  had  sometimes  of- 
fended the  little  girl  of  ten  years  before,  had  almost 
vanished.  What  crudities  still  came  out,  romantically 
reminded  of  his  hard,  early  life  on  the  lakes.  Had 
there  been  anything  in  that  life  of  his  of  which  he  had 
not  told  her  —  something  worse  than  merely  rough  and 
rugged,  which  could  strike  at  her?  Uncle  Benny's  last, 
dramatic  appeal  to  her  had  suggested  that;  but  even 
at  the  moment  when  he  was  talking  to  her,  fright  for 


100  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Uncle  Benny  —  not  dread  that  there  had  been  anything 
wrong  in  Henry's  life  —  had  most  moved  her.  Uncle 
Benny  very  evidently  was  not  himself.  As  long  as 
Constance  could  remember,  he  had  quarreled  violently 
with  Henry;  his  antagonism  to  Henry  had  become 
almost  an  obsession;  and  Constance  had  her  father's 
word  for  it  that,  a  greater  part  of  the  time,  Uncle 
Benny  had  no  just  ground  for  his  quarrel  with  Henry. 
A  most  violent  quarrel  had  occurred  upon  that  last 
day,  and  undoubtedly  its  fury  had  carried  Uncle 
Benny  to  the  length  of  going  to  Constance  as  he 
did. 

Constance  had  come  to  this  conclusion  during  the 
last  gloomy  and  stormy  days;  this  morning,  gazing 
out  upon  the  shining  lake,  clear  blue  under  the  wintry 
sun,  she  was  more  satisfied  than  before.  Summoning 
her  maid,  she  inquired  first  whether  anything  had  been 
heard  since  last  night  of  Mr.  Corvet.  She  was  quite 
sure,  if  her  father  had  had  word,  he  would  have 
awakened  her;  and  there  was  no  news.  But  Uncle 
Benny's  son,  she  remembered,  was  coming  to  break- 
fast. 

Uncle  Benny's  son !  That  suggested  to  Constance's 
mother  only  something  unpleasant,  something  to  be 
avoided  and  considered  as  little  as  possible.  But 
Alan  —  Uncle  Benny's  son  —  was  not  unpleasant  at 
all ;  he  was,  in  fact,  quite  the  reverse.  Constance  had 
liked  him  from  the  moment  that,  confused  a  little  by 
Benjamin  Corvet's  absence  and  Simons's  manner  in 
greeting  him,  he  had  turned  to  her  for  explanation ;  she 
had  liked  the  way  he  had  openly  studied  her  and  ap- 
proved her,  as  she  was  approving  him;  she  had  liked 
the  way  he  had  told  her  of  himself,  and  the  fact  that 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  101 

he  knew  nothing  of  the  man  who  proved  to  be  his 
father ;  she  had  liked  very  much  the  complete  absence 
of  impulse  to  force  or  to  pretend  feeling  when  she  had 
brought  him  the  picture  of  his  father  —  when  he, 
amazed  at  himself  for  not  feeling,  had  looked  at  her; 
and  she  had  liked  most  of  all  his  refusal,  for  himself 
and  for  his  father,  to  accept  positive  stigma  until  it 
should  be  proved. 

She  had  not  designated  any  hour  for  breakfast,  and 
she  supposed  that,  coming  from  the  country,  he  would 
believe  breakfast  to  be  early.  But  when  she  got  down- 
stairs, though  it  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  he  had  not 
come;  she  went  to  the  front  window  to  watch  for  him, 
and  after  a  few  minutes  she  saw  him  approaching, 
looking  often  to  the  lake  as  though  amazed  by  the 
change  in  it. 

She  went  to  the  door  and  herself  let  him  in. 

"  Father  has  gone  down-town,"  she  told  him,  as  he 
took  off  his  things.  "  Mr.  Spearman  returns  from 
Duluth  this  morning,  and  father  wished  to  tell  him 
about  you  as  soon  as  possible.  I  told  father  you  had 
come  to  see  him  last  night;  and  he  said  to  bring  you 
down  to  the  office." 

"  I  overslept,  I'm  afraid,"  Alan  said. 

"You  slept  well,  then?" 

"  Very  well  —  after  a  while." 

"  I'll  take  you  down-town  myself  after  breakfast." 

She  said  no  more  but  led  him  into  the  breakfast  room. 
It  was  a  delightful,  cozy  little  room,  Dutch  furnished, 
with  a  single  wide  window  to  the  east,  an  enormous 
hooded  fireplace  taking  up  half  the  north  wall,  and  blue 
Delft  tiles  set  above  it  and  paneled  in  the  walls  all 
about  the  room.  There  were  the  quaint  blue  wind- 


102  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

mills,  the  fishing  boats,  the  baggy-breeked,  wooden-shod 
folk,  the  canals  and  barges,  the  dikes  and  their  guard- 
ians, and  the  fishing  ship  on  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Alan  gazed  about  at  these  with  quick,  appreciative 
interest.  His  quality  of  instantly  noticing  and  ap^, 
preciating  anything  unusual  was,  Constance  thought, 
one  of  his  pleasantest  and  best  characteristics. 

"I  like  those  too;  I  selected  them  myself  in  Hol- 
land," she  observed. 

She  took  her  place  beside  the  coffee  pot,  and  when 
he  remained  standing  — "  Mother  always  has  her  break- 
fast in  bed;  that's  your  place,"  she  said. 

He  took  the  chair  opposite  her.  There  was  fruit 
upon  the  table;  Constance  took  an  orange  and  passed 
the  little  silver  basket  across. 

"  This  is  such  a  little  table ;  we  never  use  it  if  there's 
more  than  two  or  three  of  us ;  and  we  like  to  help  our- 
selves here." 

"  I  like  it  very  much,"  Alan  said. 

"Coffee  right  away  or  later?" 

"  Whenever  you  do.  You  see,"  he  explained,  smiling 
in  a  way  that  pleased  her,  "  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea 
what  else  is  coming  or  whether  anything  more  at  all  is 
coming."  A  servant  entered,  bringing  cereal  and 
cream ;  he  removed  the  fruit  plates,  put  the  cereal  dish 
and  two  bowls  before  Constance,  and  went  out.  "  And 
if  any  one  in  Blue  Rapids,"  Alan  went  on,  "  had  a  man 
waiting  in  the  dining-room  and  at  least  one  other  in 
the  kitchen,  they  would  not  speak  of  our  activities  here 
as  *  helping  ourselves.'  I'm  not  sure  just  how  they 
would  speak  of  them ;  we  —  the  people  I  was  with  in 
Kansas  —  had  a  maidservant  at  one  time  when  we  were 
on  the  farm,  and  when  we  engaged  her,  she  asked,  '  Do 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  103 

you  do  your  own  stretching? '  That  meant  serving 
from  the  stove  to  the  table,  usually." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments ;  when  he  looked  at 
her  across  the  table  again,  he  seemed  about  to  speak 
seriously.  His  gaze  left  her  face  and  then  came  back. 

"  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  said  gravel}',  "  what  is,  or  was, 
the  Miwaka?  A  ship?" 

He  made  no  attempt  to  put  the  question  casually; 
rather,  he  had  made  it  more  evident  that  it  was  of  con- 
cern to  him  by  the  change  in  his  manner. 

"  The  Miwaka?  "  Constance  said, 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  was  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  know ;  and  it  was  a  ship." 

"  You  mean  it  doesn't  exist  any  more?  " 

"  No ;  it  was  lost  a  long  time  ago." 

"On  the  lakes  here?" 

"On  Lake  Michigan." 

"  You  mean  by  lost  that  it  was  sunk?  " 

"  It  was  sunk,  of  course ;  but  no  one  knows  what  hap- 
pened to  it  —  whether  it  was  wrecked  or  burned  or 
merely  foundered." 

The  thought  of  the  unknown  fate  of  the  ship  and 
crew  —  of  the  ship  which  had  sailed  and  never  reached 
port  and  of  which  nothing  ever  had  been  heard  but  the 
beating  of  the  Indian  drum  —  set  her  blood  tingling 
as  it  had  done  before,  when  she  had  been  told  about  the 
ship,  or  when  she  had  told  others  about  it  and  the 
superstition  connected  with.it.  It  was  plain  Alan  Con- 
rad had  not  asked  about  it  idly;  something  about  the 
Miwaka  had  come  to  him  recently  and  had  excited  his 
intense  concern. 

"  Whose  ship  was  it?  "  he  asked.     "  My  father's?  " 

"  No ;  it  belonged  to  Stafford  and  Ramsdell.     They 


104  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

were  two  of  the  big  men  of  their  time  in  the  carrying 
trade  on  the  lakes,  but  their  line  has  been  out  of  busi- 
ness for  years;  both  Mr.  Stafford  and  Mr.  Ramsdell 
were  lost  with  the  Mfaaka."  t 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  it,  and  them,  please?  " 
"  I've  told  you  almost  all  I  can  about  Stafford  and 
Ramsdell,  I'm  afraid;  I've  just  heard  father  say  that 
they  were  men  who  could  have  amounted  to  a  great  deal 
on  the  lakes,  if  they  had  lived  —  especially  Mr.  Staf- 
ford, who  was  very  young.  The  Miwaka  was  a  great 
new  steel  ship  —  built  the  year  after  I  was  born ;  it  was 
the  first  of  nearly  a  dozen  that  Stafford  and  Ramsdell 
had  planned  to  build.  There  was  some  doubt  among 
lake  men  about  steel  boats  at  that  time;  they  had 
begun  to  be  built  very  largely  quite  a  few  years  before, 
but  recently  there  had  been  some  serious  losses  with 
them.  Whether  it  was  because  they  were  built  on 
models  not  fitted  for  the  lakes,  no  one  knew ;  but  several 
of  them  had  broken  in  two  and  sunk,  and  a  good  many 
men  were  talking  about  going  back  to  wood.  But 
Stafford  and  Ramsdell  believed  in  steel  and  had  finished 
this  first  one  of  their  new  boats. 

"  She  left  Duluth  for  Chicago,  loaded  with  ore,  on 
the  first  day  of  December,  with  both  owners  and  part 
of  their  families  on  board.  She  passed  the  Soo  on  the 
third  and  went  through  the  Straits  of  Mackinac  on 
the  fourth  into  Lake  Michigan.  After  that,  nothing 
was  ever  heard  of  her." 

"  So  probably  she  broke  in  two  like  the  others  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Spearman  and  your  father  both  thought  so ; 

but  nobody  ever  knew  —  no  wreckage  came  ashore  — 

no  message  of  any  sort  from  any  one  on  board.     A 

very  sudden  winter  storm  had  come  up  and  was  at  its 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  105 

worst  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth.  Uncle  Benny  — 
your  father  —  told  me  once,  when  I  asked  him  about  it, 
that  it  was  as  severe  for  a  time  as  any  he  had  ever  ex- 
perienced. He  very  nearly  lost  his  life  in  it.  He  had 
just  finished  laying  up  one  of  his  boats  —  the  Martha 
Corvet  —  at  Manistee  for  the  winter;  and  he  and  Mr. 
Spearman,  who  then  was  mate  of  the  Martha  Corvet, 
were  crossing  the  lake  in  a  tug  with  a  crew  of  four  men 
to  Manitowoc,  where  they  were  going  to  lay  up  more 
ships.  The  captain  and  one  of  the  deck  hands  of  the 
tug  were  washed  overboard,  and  the  engineer  was  lost 
trying  to  save  them.  Uncle  Benny  and  Mr.  Spearman 
and  the  stoker  brought  the  tug  in.  The  storm  was 
worst  about  five  in  the  morning,  when  the  M'wcaka 
sunk." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  the  Mvwaka  sunk  at  five," 
Alan  asked,  "  if  no  one  ever  heard  from  the  ship?  " 

"  Oh ;  that  was  told  by  the  Drum !  " 

"The  Drum?" 

"  Yes ;  the  Indian  Drum  !  I  forgot ;  of  course  you 
didn't  know.  It's  a  superstition  that  some  of  the  lake 
men  have,  particularly  those  who  come  from  people  at 
the  other  end  of  the  lake.  The  Indian  Drum  is  in  the 
woods  there,  they  say.  No  one  has  seen  it ;  but  many 
people  believe  that  they  have  heard  it.  It's  a  spirit 
drum  which  beats,  they  say,  for  every  ship  lost  on  the 
lake.  There's  a  particular  superstition  about  it  in 
regard  to  the  Miwaka;  for  the  drum  beat  wrong  for 
the  Miwaka.  You  see,  the  people  about  there  swear 
that  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  fifth,  while 
the  storm  was  blowing  terribly,  they  heard  the  drum 
beating  and  knew  that  a  ship  was  going  down.  They 
counted  the  sounds  as  it  beat  the  roll  of  the  dead.  It 


106  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

beat  twenty-four  before  it  stopped  and  then  began  to 
beat  again  and  beat  twenty-four;  so,  later,  everybody 
knew  it  had  been  beating  for  the  Miwaka;  for  every 
other  ship  on  the  lake  got  to  port;  but  there  were 
twenty-five  altogether  on  the  Miwaka,  so  either  the 
drum  beat  wrong  or  — "  she  hesitated. 

"Or  what?" 

"  Or  the  drum  was  right,  and  some  one  was  saved. 
Many  people  believed  that.  It  was  years  before  the 
families  of  the  men  on  board  gave  up  hope,  because  of 
the  Drum ;  maybe  some  haven't  given  up  hope  yet." 

Alan  made  no  comment  for  a  moment.  Constance 
had  seen  the  blood  flush  to  his  face  and  then  leave  it, 
and  her  own  pulse  had  beat  as  swiftly  as  she  rehearsed 
the  superstition.  As  he  gazed  at  her  and  then  away, 
it  was  plain  that  he  had  heard  something  additional 
about  the  Miwaka  —  something  which  he  was  trying  to 
fit  into  what  she  told  him. 

"  That's  all  anybody  knows  ?  "  His  gaze  came  back 
to  her  at  last. 

"  Yes ;  why  did  you  ask  about  it  —  the  Miwaka?  I 
mean,  how  did  you  hear  about  it  so  you  wanted  to 
know?" 

He  considered  an  instant  before  replying.  "  I  en- 
countered a  reference  to  the  Miwaka  —  I  supposed  it 
must  be  a  ship  —  in  my  father's  house  last  night." 

His  manner,  as  he  looked  down  at  his  coffee  cup, 
toying  with  it,  prevented  her  then  from  asking  more; 
he  seemed  to  know  that  she  wished  to  press  it,  and  he 
looked  up  quickly. 

"  I  met  my  servant  —  my  father's  servant  —  this 
morning,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  he  got  back   this  morning.     He  came  here 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  107 

early  to  report  to  father  that  he  had  no  news  of  Uncle 
Benny ;  and  father  told  him  you  were  at  the  house  and 
sent  him  over." 

Alan  was  studying  the  coffee  cup  again,  a  queer  ex- 
pression on  his  face  which  she  could  not  read. 

"  He  was  there  when  I  woke  up  this  morning,  Miss- 
Sherrill.  I  hadn't  heard  anybody  in  the  house,  but  I 
saw  a  little  table  on  wheels  standing  in  the  hall  outside 
mv  door  and  a  spirit  lamp  and  a  little  coffee  pot  on  it, 
and  a  man  bending  over  it,  warming  the  cup.  His 
back  was  toward  me,  and  he  had  straight  black  hair, 
so  that  at  first  I  thought  he  was  a  Jap;  but  when  he 
turned  around,  I  saw  he  was  an  American  Indian." 

"  Yes ;  that  was  Wassaquam." 

"  Is  that  his  name?     He  told  me  it  was  Judah." 

"  Yes  —  Judah  Wassaquam.  He's  a  Chippewa 
from  the  north  end  of  the  lake.  They're  very  religious 
there,  most  of  the  Indians  at  the  foot  of  the  lake;  and 
many  of  them  have  a  Biblical  name  which  they  use  for 
a  first  name  and  use  their  Indian  name  for  a  last  one." 

"  He  called  me  '  Alan  '  and  my  father  *  Ben.'  " 

"  The  Indians  almost  always  call  people  by  their 
first  names." 

"  He  said  that  he  had  always  served  *  Ben  '  his  coffee 
that  way  before  he  got  up,  and  so  he  had  supposed  he 
was  to  do  the  same  by  me ;  and  also  that,  long  ago,  he 
used  to  be  a  deck  hand  on  one  of  my  father's  ships." 

"  Yes ;  when  Uncle  Benny  began  to  operate  ships  of 
his  own,  many  of  the  ships  on  the  lakes  had  Indians 
among  the  deck  hands ;  some  had  all  Indians  for  crews 
and  white  men  only  for  officers.  Wassaquam  was  on 
the  first  freighter  Uncle  Benny  ever  owned  a  share  in ; 
afterwards  he  came  here  to  Chicago  with  Uncle  Benny. 


108  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

He's  been  looking  after  Uncle  Benny  all  alone  now  for 
more  than  ten  years  —  and  he's  very  much  devoted  to 
him,  and  fully  trustworthy;  and  besides  that,  he's  a 
wonderful  cook;  but  I've  wondered  sometimes  whether 
Uncle  Benny  wasn't  the  only  city  man  in  the  world  who 
had  an  Indian  body  servant." 

"  You  know  a  good  deal  about  Indians." 

"  A  little  about  the  lake  Indians,  the  Chippewas  and 
Pottawatomies  in  northern  Michigan." 

"  Recollection's  a  funny  thing,"  Alan  said,  after  con- 
sidering a  moment.  "  This  morning,  after  seeing 
Judah  and  talking  to  him  —  or  rather  hearing  him 
talk  —  somehow  a  story  got  running  in  my  head.  I 
can't  make  out  exactly  what  it  was  —  about  a  lot  of 
animals  on  a  raft;  and  there  was  some  one  with  them 
—  I  don't  know  who ;  I  can't  fit  any  name  to  him ;  but 
he  had  a  name." 

Constance  bent  forward  quickly.  "Was  the  name 
Michabou?"  she  asked. 

He  returned  her  look,  surprised.  "  That's  it ;  how 
did  you  know?" 

"  I  think  I  know  the  sjtory ;  and  Wassaquam  would 
have  known  it  too,  I  think,  if  you'd  ask  him;  but 
probably  he  would  have  thought  it  impious  to  tell  it, 
because  he  and  his  people  are  great  Christians  now. 
Michabou  is  one  of  the  Indian  names  for  Manitou. 
What  else  do  you  remember  of  the  story." 

"Not  much,  I'm  afraid  —  just  sort  of  scenes  here 
and  there ;  but  I  can  remember  the  beginning  now  that 
you  have  given  me  the  name :  '  In  the  beginning  of 
all  things  there  was  only  water  and  Michabou  was 
floating  on  the  raft  with  all  the  animals.'  Michabou, 
it  seemed,  wanted  the  land  brought  up  so  that  men 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  109 

and  animals  could  live  on  it,  and  he  asked  one  of  the 
animals  to  go  down  and  bring  it  up  —  " 

"  The  beaver,"  Constance  supplied. 

"Was  the  beaver  the  first  one?  The  beaver  dived 
and  stayed  down  a  long  time,  so  long  that  when  he 
came  up  he  was  breathless  and  completely  exhausted, 
but  he  had  not  been  able  to  reach  the  bottom.  Then 
Michabou  sent  down  —  " 

"  The  otter." 

"  And  he  stayed  down  much  longer  than  the  beaver, 
and  when  he  came  up  at  last,  they  dragged  him  on  to 
the  raft  quite  senseless;  but  he  hadn't  been  able  to 
reach  the  bottom  either.  So  the  animals  and  Michabou 
himself  were  ready  to  give  it  up;  but  then  the  little 
muskrat  spoke  up  —  am  I  right?  Was  this  the  musk- 
rat?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  can  finish  it  for  me?  " 

"  He  dived  and  he  stayed  down,  the  little  muskrat," 
Constance  continued,  "  longer  than  the  beaver  and  the 
otter  both  together.  Michabou  and  the  animals  waited 
all  day  for  him  to  come  up,  and  they  watched  all 
through  the  night ;  so  then  they  knew  he  must  be  dead. 
And,  sure  enough,  they  came  after  a  while  across  the 
body  floating  on  the  water  and  apparently  lifeless. 
They  dragged  him  onto  the  raft  and  found  that  his 
little  paws  were  all  tight  shut.  They  forced  open  three 
of  the  paws  and  found  nothing  in  them,  but  when  they 
opened  the  last  one,  they  found  one  grain  of  sand 
tightly  clutched  in  it.  The  little  muskrat  had  done  it ; 
he'd  reached  the  bottom!  And  out  of  that  one  grain 
of  sand,  Michabou  made  the  world." 

"  That's  it,"  he  said.     "  Now  what  is  it?  " 


110  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  The  Indian  story  of  creation  —  or  one  of  them." 
"  Not  a  story  of  the  plain  Indians  surely." 
"  No ;  of  the  Indians  who  live  about  the  lakes  and  so 
got  the  idea  that  everything  was  water  in  the  first 
place  —  the  Indians  who  live  on  the  islands  and  penin- 
sulas.    That's  how  I  came  to  know  it." 

"  I  thought  that  must  be  it,"  Alan  said.     His  hand 
trembled  a  little  as  he  lifted  his  coffee  cup  to  his  lips. 

Constance  too  flushed  a  little  with  excitement;  it 
was  a  surprisingly  close  and  intimate  thing  to  have 
explored  with  another  back  into  the  concealments  of 
his  first  child  consciousness,  to  have  aided  another  in 
the  sensitive  task  of  revealing  himself  to  himself.  This 
which  she  had  helped  to  bring  back  to  him  must  have 
been  one  of  the  first  stories  told  him  ;  he  had  been  a  very 
little  boy,  when  he  had  been  taken  to  Kansas,  away 
from  where  he  must  have  heard  this  story  —  the  lakes. 
She  was  a  little  nervous  also  from  watching  £he  time 
as  told  by  the  tiny  watch  on  her  wrist.  Henry's  train 
from  Duluth  must  be  in  now ;  and  he  had  not  yet  called 
her,  as  had  been  his  custom  recently,  as  soon  as  he 
returned  to  town  after  a  trip.  But,  in  a  minute,  a 
servant  entered  to  inform  her  that  Mr.  Spearman 
wished  to  speak  to  her.  She  excused  herself  to  Alan 
and  hurried  out.  Henry  was  calling  her  from  the 
railroad  station  and,  he  said,  from  a  most  particularly 
stuffy  booth  and,  besides  having  a  poor  connection, 
there  was  any  amount  of  noise  about  him ;  but  he  was 
very  anxious  to  see  Constance  as  soon  as  possible. 
Could  she  be  in  town  that  morning  and  have  luncheon 
with  him  ?  Yes ;  she  was  going  down-town  very  soon 
and,  after  luncheon,  he  could  come  home  with  her  if 
he  wished.  He  certainly  did  wish,  but  he  couldn't  tell 


CONSTANCE  SHERRILL  111 

yet  what  he  might  have  to  do  in  the  afternoon,  but 
please  would  she  save  the  evening  for  him.  She 
promised  and  started  to  tell  him  about  Alan,  then  recol- 
lected that  Henry  was  going  to  see  her  father  imme- 
diately at  the  office. 

Alan  was  standing,  waiting  for  her,  when  she  re- 
turned to  the  breakfast  room. 

"Ready  to  go  down-town?"  she  asked. 

"Whenever  you  are." 

"  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute.  I'm  planning  to  drive ; 
are  you  afraid?  " 

He  smiled  in  his  pleasant  way  as  he  glanced  over 
her;  she  had  become  conscious  of  saying  that  sort  of 
thing  to  tempt  the  smile.  "  Oh,  I'll  take  the  risk." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    DEED    IN    TRUST 

HER  little  gasoline-driven  car  —  delicate  as 
though  a  jeweler  had  made  it  —  was  waiting 
for  them  under  the  canopy  beside  the  house, 
when  they  went  out.  She  delayed  a  moment  to  ask 
Alan  to  let  down  the  windows;  the  sky  was  still  clear, 
and  the  sunshine  had  become  almost  warm,  though  the 
breeze  was  sharp  and  cold.  As  the  car  rolled  down  the 
drive,  and  he  turned  for  a  long  look  past  her  toward 
the  lake,  she  watched  his  expression. 

"It's  like  a  great  shuttle,  the  ice  there,"  she  com- 
mented, "  a  monster  shuttle  nearly  three  hundred  miles 
long.  All  winter  it  moves  back  and  forth  across  the 
lake,  from  east  to  west  and  from  west  to  east  as  the 
winds  change,  blocking  each  shore  half  the  time  and 
forcing  the  winter  boats  to  fight  it  always." 

"  The  gulls  go  opposite  to  it,  I  suppose,  sticking  to 
open  water." 

"  The  gulls  ?  That  depends  upon  the  weather. 
'  Sea-gull,  sea-gull,'  "  she  quoted,  "  '  sit  on  the  sand ; 
It's  never  fair  weather  when  you're  on  the  land.' " 

Alan  started  a  little.     «  What  was  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  rhyme?  One  which  the  wives  of  the  lake  men 
teach  their  children.  Did  you  remember  that  too?" 

"  After  you  said  it." 

"  Can  you  remember  the  rest  of  it?  " 

"  '  Green  to  Green  —  Red  to  Red,'  "  Alan  repeated 


THE  DEED  IN  TRUST  113 

to  himself.  " '  Green  to  green  '  and  then  something 
about  —  how  is  it,  '  Back  her  —  back  and  stopper.'  " 
"  That's  from  a  lake  rhyme  too,  but  another  one !  " 
she  cried.  "  And  that's  quite  a  good  one.  It's  one  of 
the  pilot  rules  that  every  lake  person  knows.  Some 
skipper  and  wheelsman  set  them  to  rhyme  years  ago, 
and  the  lake  men  teach  the  rhymes  to  their  children  so 
that  they'll  never  go  wrong  with  a  ship.  It  keeps  them 
clearer  in  their  heads  than  any  amount  of  government 
printing.  Uncle  Benny  used  to  say  they've  saved  any 
number  of  collisions. 

"  Meeting  steamers  do  not  dread," 
she  recited, 

"  When  you  see  three  lights  ahead ! 
Port  your  helm  and  show  your  red. 
For  passing  steamers  you  should  try 
To  keep  this  maxim  in  your  eye, 
Green  to  Green  —  or  Red  to  Red  — 
Perfect  safety  —  go  ahead. 
Both  in  safety  and  in  doubt, 
Always  keep  a  good  lookout; 
Should  there  be  no  room  to  turn, 
Stop  your  ship  and  go  astern." 

"  Now  we're  coming  to  your  *  back  and  stopper  ' : 

"  If  to  starboard  Red  appear, 
'Tis  your  duty  to  keep  clear ; 
Act  as  judgment  says  is  proper. 
Port  or  starboard  —  back  or  stop  her ! 
But  when  on  your  port  is  seen 
A  steamer  with  a  light  of  Green, 
There's  not  much  for  you  to  do  — 
The  Green  light  must  look  out  for  you." 


114  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

She  had  driven  the  car  swiftly  on  the  boulevard  to 
the  turn  where  the  motorway  makes  west  to  Rush 
Street,  then  it  turned  south  again  toward  the  bridge. 
As  they  reached  the  approach  to  the  bridge  and  the 
cars  congested  there,  Constance  was  required  to  give 
all  her  attention  to  the  steering;  not  until  they  were 
crossing  the  bridge  was  she  able  to  glance  at  her  com- 
panion's face. 

To  westward,  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  summer 
boats  were  laid  up,  their  decks  covered  with  snow.  On 
the  other  side,  still  nearer  to  the  bridge,  were  some  of 
the  winter  vessels;  and,  while  the  motor  was  on  the 
span,  the  bells  began  ringing  the  alarm  to  clear  the 
bridge  so  it  could  turn  to  let  through  a  great  steamer 
just  in  from  the  lake,  the  sun  glistening  on  the  ice  cov- 
ering its  bows  and  sides  back  as  far  as  Alan  could  see. 

Forward  of  the  big,  black,  red-banded  funnel,  a  cloud 
of  steam  bellowed  up  and  floated  back,  followed  by 
another,  and  two  deep,  reverberating  blasts  rumbled 
up  the  river  majestically,  imperiously.  The  shrill  lit- 
tle alarm  bells  on  the  bridge  jangled  more  nervously 
and  excitedly,  and  the  policeman  at  the  south  end 
hastily  signalled  the  motor  cars  from  the  city  to  stop, 
while  he  motioned  those  still  on  the  bridge  to  scurry  off ; 
for  a  ship  desired  to  pass. 

"  Can  we  stop  and  see  it?  "  Alan  appealed,  as  Con- 
stance ran  the  car  from  the  bridge  just  before  it  began 
to  turn. 

She  swung  the  car  to  the  side  of  the  street  and 
stopped ;  as  he  gazed  back,  he  was  —  she  knew  —  seeing 
not  only  his  first  great  ship  close  by,  but  having  his 
first  view  of  his  people  —  the  lake  men  from  whom  now 
he  knew  from  the  feeling  he  had  found  within  himself, 


THE  DEED  IN  TRUST  115 

and  not  only  from  what  had  been  told  him,  that  he 
had  come. 

The  ship  was  sheathed  in  ice  from  stem  to  stern ;  tons 
of  the  gleaming,  crystal  metal  weighed  the  forecastle ; 
the  rail  all  round  had  become  a  frozen  bulwark;  the 
boats  were  mere  hummocks  of  ice;  the  bridge  was 
encased,  and  from  the  top  of  the  pilot  house  hung  down 
giant  stalactites  which  an  axeman  was  chopping  away. 
Alan  could  see  the  officers  on  the  bridge,  the  wheelsman, 
the  lookout ;  he  could  see  the  spurt  of  water  from  the 
ship's  side  as  it  expelled  with  each  thrust  of  the  pumps ; 
he  could  see  the  whirlpool  about  the  screw,  as  slowly, 
steadily,  with  signals  clanging  clearly  somewhere  below, 
the  steamer  went  through  the  draw.  From  up  the 
river  ahead  of  it  came  the  jangling  of  bells  and  the 
blowing  of  alarm  whistles  as  the  other  bridges  were 
cleared  to  let  the  vessel  through.  It  showed  its  stern 
now;  Alan  read  the  name  and  registry  aloud: 
' '  Groton  of  Escanaba!  '  Is  that  one  of  yours,  Miss 
Sherrill ;  is  that  one  of  yours  and  my  —  Mr.  Cor- 
vet's?" 

She  shook  her  head,  sorry  that  she  had  to  say  no. 
"  Shall  we  go  on  now?  " 

The  bridge  was  swinging  shut  again ;  the  long  line 
of  motor  cars,  which  had  accumulated  from  the  boule- 
vard from  the  city,  began  slowly  to  move.  Constance 
turned  the  car  down  the  narrow  street,  fronted  by  ware- 
houses which  Alan  had  passed  the  morning  before,  to 
Michigan  Avenue,  with  the  park  and  harbor  to  the  left. 
When  she  glanced  now  at  Alan,  she  saw  that  a  reaction 
of  depression  had  followed  excitement  at  seeing  the 
steamer  pass  close  by. 

Memory,  if  he  could  call  it  that,  had  given  him  a 


116  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

feeling  for  ships  and  for  the  lake;  a  single  word  — 
Mvuoaka  —  a  childish  rhyme  and  story,  which  he  might 
have  heard  repeated  and  have  asked  for  a  hundred 
times  in  babyhood.  But  these  recollections  were  only 
what  those  of  a  three-years'  child  might  have  been. 
Not  only  did  they  refuse  to  connect  themselves  with 
anything  else,  but  by  the  very  finality  of  their  isolation, 
they  warned  him  that  they  —  and  perhaps  a  few  more 
vague  memories  of  similar  sort  —  were  all  that  recollec- 
tion ever  would  give  him.  He  caught  himself  together 
and  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  approaching  visit  to 
Sherrill  —  and  his  father's  offices. 

Observing  the  towering  buildings  to  his  right,  he  was 
able  to  identify  some  of  the  more  prominent  structures, 
familiar  from  photographs  of  the  city.  Constance 
drove  swiftly  a  few  blocks  down  this  boulevard;  then, 
with  a  sudden,  "  Here  we  are ! "  she  shot  the  car  to  the 
curb  and  stopped.  She  led  Alan  into  one  of  the  tallest 
and  best-looking  of  the  buildings,  where  they  took  an 
elevator  placarded  "  Express  "  to  the  fifteenth  floor. 

On  several  of  the  doors  opening  upon  the  wide  marble 
hall  where  the  elevator  left  them,  Alan  saw  the  names, 
"  Corvet,  Sherrill  and  Spearman."  As  they  passed, 
without  entering,  one  of  these  doors  which  stood 
propped  open,  and  he  looked  in,  he  got  his  first  realiza- 
tion of  the  comparatively  small  land  accommodations 
which  a  great  business  conducted  upon  the  water  re- 
quires. What  he  saw  within  was  only  one  large  room, 
with  hardly  more  than  a  dozen,  certainly  not  a  score  of 
desks  in  it ;  nearly  all  the  desks  were  closed,  and  there 
were  not  more  than  three  or  four  people  in  the  room, 
and  these  apparently  stenographers.  Doors  of  several 
smaller  offices,  opening  upon  the  larger  room,  bore 


THE  DEED  IN  TRUST  117 

names,  among  which  he  saw  "  Mr.  Corvet "  and  "  Mr. 
Spearman." 

"  It  won't  look  like  that  a  month  from  now,"  Con- 
stance said,  catching  his  expression.  "  Just  now,  you 
know,  the  straits  and  all  the  northern  lakes  are  locked 
fast  with  ice.  There's  nothing  going  on  now  except  the 
winter  traffic  on  Lake  Michigan  and,  to  a  much  smaller 
extent,  on  Ontario  and  Erie;  we  have  an  interest  in 
some  winter  boats,  but  we  don't  operate  them  from  here. 
Next  month  we  will  be  busy  fitting  out,  and  the  month 
after  that  all  the  ships  we  have  will  be  upon  the  water." 

She  led  the  way  on  past  to  a  door  farther  down  the 
corridor,  which  bore  merely  the  name,  "  Lawrence 
Sherrill  " ;  evidently  Sherrill,  who  had  interests  aside 
from  the  shipping  business,  had  offices  connected  with 
but  not  actually  a  part  of  the  offices  of  Corvet,  Sher- 
rill, and  Spearman.  A  girl  was  on  guard  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door;  she  recognized  Constance  Sherrill  at 
once  and,  saying  that  Mr.  Sherrill  had  been  awaiting 
Mr.  Conrad,  she  opened  an  inner  door  and  led  Alan 
into  a  large,  many-windowed  room,  where  Sherrill  was 
sitting  alone  before  a  table-desk.  He  arose,  a  moment 
after  the  door  opened,  and  spoke  a  word  to  his  daugh- 
ter, who  had  followed  Alan  and  the  girl  to  the  door, 
but  who  had  halted  there.  Constance  withdrew,  and 
the  girl  from  the  outer  office  also  went  away,  closing 
the  door  behind  her.  Sherrill  pulled  the  "  visitor's 
chair  "  rather  close  to  his  desk  and  to  his  own  big 
leather  chair  before  asking  Alan  to  seat  himself. 

"  You  wanted  to  tell  me,  or  ask  me,  something  last 
night,  my  daughter  has  told  me,"  Sherrill  said  cor- 
dially. "  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  home  when  you  came 
back." 


118  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Sherrill,"  Alan  said, 
"  about  those  facts  in  regard  to  Mr.  CorVet  which  you 
mentioned  to  me  yesterday  but  did  not  explain.  You 
said  it  would  not  aid  me  to  know  them;  but  I  found 
certain  things  in  Mr.  Corvet's  house  last  night  which 
made  me  want  to  know,  if  I  could,  everything  you  could 
tell  me." 

Sherrill  opened  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  large,  plain 
envelope. 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  about  these  yesterday,  Alan," 
he  said,  "  not  only  because  I  had  not  decided  how  to 
act  in  regard  to  these  matters,  but  because  I  had  not 
said  anything  to  Mr.  Spearman  about  them  previously, 
because  I  expected  to  get  some  additional  information 
from  you.  After  seeing  you,  I  was  obliged  to  wait  for 
Spearman  to  get  back  to  town.  The  circumstances 
are  such  that  I  felt  myself  obliged  to  talk  them  over 
first  with  him ;  I  have  done  that  this  morning ;  so  I  was 
going  to  send  for  you,  if  you  had  not  come  down." 

Sherrill  thought  a  minute,  still  holding  the  envelope 
closed  in  his  hand. 

"On  the  day  after  your  father  disappeared,"  he 
went  on,  "  but  before  I  knew  he  was  gone  —  or  before 
any  one  except  my  daughter  felt  any  alarm  about  him 
—  I  received  a  short  note  from  him.  I  will  show  it  to 
you  later,  if  you  wish;  its  exact  wording,  however,  is 
unimportant.  It  had  been  mailed  very  late  the  night 
before  and  apparently  at  the  mail  box  near  his  house 
or  at  least,  by  the  postmark,  somewhere  in  the  neigh- 
borhood; and  for  that  reason  had  not  been  taken  up 
before  the  morning  collection  and  did  not  reach  the 
office  until  I  had  been  here  and  gone  away  again  about 
eleven  o'clock.  I  did  not  get  it,  therefore,  until  after 


THE  DEEI}  IN  TRUST  119 

lunch.  The  note  was  agitated,  almost  incoherent.  It 
told  me  he  had  sent  for  you  —  Alan  Conrad,  of  Blue 
Rapids,  Kansas  —  but  spoke  of  you  as  though  you 
were  some  one  I  ought  to  have  known  about,  and  com- 
mended you  to  my  care.  The  remainder  of  it  was 
merely  an  agitated,  almost  indecipherable  farewell  to 
me.  When  I  opened  the  envelope,  a  key  had  fallen  out. 
The  note  made  no  reference  to  the  key,  but  comparing 
it  with  one  I  had  in  my  pocket,  I  saw  that  it  appeared 
to  be  a  key  to  a  safety  deposit  box  in  the  vaults  of  a 
company  where  we  both  had  boxes. 

"  The  note,  taken  in  connection  with  my  daughter's 
alarm  about  him,  made  it  so  plain  that  something  seri- 
ous had  happened  to  Corvet,  that  my  first  thought  was 
merely  for  him.  Corvet  was  not  a  man  with  whom  one 
could  readily  connect  the  thought  of  suicide ;  but,  Alan, 
that  was  the  idea  I  had.  I  hurried  at  once  to  his  house, 
but  the  bell  was  not  answered,  and  I  could  not  get  in. 
His  servant,  Wassaquam,  has  very  few  friends,  and 
the  few  times  he  has  been  away  from  home  of  recent 
years  have  been  when  he  visited  an  acquaintance  of 
his  —  the  head  porter  in  a  South  Side  hotel.  I  went  to 
the  telephone  in  the  house  next  door  and  called  the  hotel 
and  found  Wassaquam  there.  I  asked  Wassaquam 
about  the  letter  to  *  Alan  Conrad,'  and  Wassaquam  said 
Corvet  had  given  it  to  him  to  post  early  in  the  evening. 
Several  hours  later,  Corvet  had  sent  him  out  to  wait  at 
the  mail  box  for  the  mail  collector  to  get  the  letter 
back.  Wassaquam  went  out  to  the  mail  box,  and  Cor- 
vet came  out  there  too,  almost  at  once.  The  mail  col- 
lector, when  he  came,  told  them,  of  course,  that  he 
could  not  return  the  letter;  but  Corvet  himself  had 
taken  the  letters  and  looked  them  through.  Corvet 


120  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

seemed  very  much  excited  when  he  discovered  the  letter 
was  not  there;  and  when  the  mail  man  remembered 
that  he  had  been  late  on  his  previous  trip  and  so  must 
have  taken  up  the  letter  almost  at  once  after  it  was 
mailed,  Corvet's  excitement  increased  on  learning  that 
it  was  already  probably  on  the  train  on  its  way  west. 
He  controlled  himself  later  enough  at  least  to  reassure 
Wassaquam ;  for  an  hour  or  so  after,  when  Corvet  sent 
Wassaquam  away  from  the  house,  Wassaquam  had  gone 
without  feeling  any  anxiety  about  him. 

"  I  told  Wassaquam  over  the  telephone  only  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  hurried  to  my  own  home  to 
get  the  key,  which  I  had,  to  the  Corvet  house ;  but  when 
I  came  back  and  let  myself  into  the  house,  I  found  it 
empty  and  with  no  sign  of  anything  having  happened. 

"  The  next  morning,  Alan,  I  went  to  the  safe  deposit 
vaults  as  soon  as  they  were  open.  I  presented  the 
numbered  key  and  was  told  that  it  belonged  to  a  box 
rented  by  Corvet,  and  that  Corvet  had  arranged  about 
three  days  before  for  me  to  have  access  to  the  box  if 
I  presented  the  key.  I  had  only  to  sign  my  name  in 
their  book  and  open  the  box.  In  it,  Alan,  I  found  the 
pictures  of  you  which  I  showed  you  yesterday  and  the 
very  strange  communications  that  I  am  going  to  show 
you  now." 

Sherrill  opened  the  long  envelope  from  which  several 
thin,  folded  papers  fell.  He  picked  up  the  largest  of 
these,  which  consisted  of  several  sheets  fastened  to- 
gether with  a  clip,  and  handed  it  to  Alan  without  com- 
ment. Alan,  as  he  looked  at  it  and  turned  the  pages, 
saw  that  it  contained  two  columns  of  typewriting  car- 
ried from  page  to  page  after  the  manner  of  an  account. 

The  column  to  the  left  was  an  inventory  of  property 


THE  DEED  IN  TRUST  121 

and  profits  and  income  by  months  and  years,  and  the 
one  to  the  right  was  a  list  of  losses  and  expenditures. 
Beginning  at  an  indefinite  day  or  month  in  the  year 
1895,  there  was  set  down  in  a  lump  sum  what  was  indi- 
cated as  the  total  of  Benjamin  Corvet's  holdings  at  that 
time.  To  this,  in  sometimes  undated  items,  the  increase 
had  been  added.  In  the  opposite  column,  beginning 
apparently  from  the  same  date  in  1895,  were  the  miss- 
ing man's  expenditures.  The  painstaking  exactness  of 
these  left  no  doubt  of  their  correctness ;  they  included 
items  for  natural  depreciation  of  perishable  properties 
and,  evidently,  had  been  worked  over  very  recently. 
Upon  the  last  sheet,  the  second  column  had  been  de- 
ducted from  the  first,  and  an  apparently  purely  arbi- 
trary sum  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  had  been 
taken  away.  From  the  remainder  there  had  been  taken 
away  approximately  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  more. 

Alan  having  ascertained  that  the  papers  contained 
only  this  account,  looked  up  questioningly  to  Sherrill ; 
but  Sherrill,  without  speaking,  merely  handed  him  the 
second  of  the  papers.  .  .  .  This,  Alan  saw,  had  evi- 
dently been  folded  to  fit  a  smaller  envelope.  Alan 
unfolded  it  and  saw  that  it  was  a  letter  written  in  the 
same  hand  which  had  written  the  summons  he  had 
received  in  Blue  Rapids  and  had  made  the  entries  in 
the  little  memorandum  book  of  the  remittances  that  had 
been  sent  to  John  Welton. 

It  began  simply : 

Lawrence  — 

This  will  come  to  you  in  the  event  that  I  am  not 
able  to  carry  out  the  plan  upon  which  I  am  now, 


122  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

at  last,  determined.  You  will  find  with  this  a  list  of 
my  possessions  which,  except  for  two  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  settled  upon  my  wife  which  was  hers  abso- 
lutely to  dispose  of  as  she  desired  and  a  further  sum 
of  approximately  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars presented  in  memory  of  her  to  the  Hospital  Serv- 
ice in  France,  have  been  transferred  to  you  without 
legal  reservation. 

You  will  find  deeds  for  all  real  estate  executed  and 
complete  except  for  recording  of  the  transfer  at  the 
county  office;  bonds,  certificates,  and  other  documents 
representing  my  ownership  of  properties,  together  with 
signed  forms  for  their  legal  transfer  to  you,  are  in 
this  box.  These  properties,  in  their  entirety,  I  give 
to  you  in  trust  to  hold  for  the  young  man  now  known 
as  Alan  Conrad  of  Blue  Rapids,  Kansas,  to  deliver  any 
part  or  all  over  to  him  or  to  continue  to  hold  it  all 
in  trust  for  him  as  you  shall  consider  to  be  to  his 
greatest  advantage. 

This  for  the  reasons  which  I  shall  have  told  to  you 
or  him  —  I  cannot  know  which  one  of  you  now,  nor 
do  I  know  how  I  shall  tell  it.  But  when  you  learn, 
Lawrence,  think  as  well  of  me  as  you  can  and  help  him 
to  be  charitable  to  me. 

With  the  greatest  affection, 

BENJAMIN  CORVET. 

Alan,  as  he  finished  reading,  looked  up  to  Sherrill. 
bewildered  and  dazed. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Mr.  Sherrill  ?  —  Does  it  mean 
that  he  has  gone  away  and  left  everything  he  had  — 
everything  to  me?  " 

"The  properties  listed  here,"  Sherrill  touched  the 
pages  Alan  first  had  looked  at,  "  are  in  the  box  at  the 
vault  with  the  executed  forms  of  their  transfer  to  me. 


THE  DEED  IN  TRUST  123 

If  Mr.  Corvet  does  not  return,  and  I  do  not  receive  any 
other  instructions,  I  shall  take  over  his  estate  as  he  has 
instructed  for  your  advantage." 

"  And,  Mr.  Sherrill,  he  didn't  tell  you  why?  This  is 
all  you  know?" 

"  Yes ;  you  have  everything  now.  The  fact  that  he 
did  not  give  his  reasons  for  this,  either  to  you  or  me, 
made  me  think  at  first  that  he  might  have  made  his  plan 
known  to  some  one  else,  and  that  he  had  been  opposed 
—  to  the  extent  even  of  violence  done  upon  him  —  to 
prevent  his  carrying  it  out.  But  the  more  I  have  con- 
sidered this,  the  less  likely  it  has  seemed  to  me.  What- 
ever had  happened  to  Corvet  that  had  so  much  dis- 
turbed and  excited  him  lately,  seems  rather  to  have  pre- 
cipitated his  plan  than  deterred  him  in  it.  He  may 
have  determined  after  he  had  written  this  that  his 
actions  and  the  plain  indication  of  his  relationship  to 
you,  gave  all  the  explanation  he  wanted  to  make.  All 
we  can  do,  Alan,  is  to  search  for  him  in  every  way  we 
can.  There  will  be  others  searching  for  him  too  now; 
for  information  of  his  disappearance  has  got  out. 
There  have  been  reporters  at  the  office  this  morning 
making  inquiries,  and  his  disappearance  will  be  in  the 
afternoon  papers." 

Sherrill  put  the  papers  back  in  their  envelope,  and 
the  envelope  back  into  the  drawer,  which  he  relocked. 

"  I  went  over  all  this  with  Mr.  Spearman  this  morn- 
ing," he  said.  "  He  is  as  much  at  a  loss  to  explain  it 
as  I  am." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"  The  transfer  of  Mr.  Corvet's  properties  to  me  for 
you,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  includes,  as  you  have  seen, 
Corvet's  interest  in  the  firm  of  '  Corvet,  Sherrill  and 


124  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Spearman.'  I  went  very  carefully  through  the  deeds 
and  transfers  in  the  deposit  box,  and  it  was  plain  that, 
while  he  had  taken  great  care  with  the  forms  of  transfer 
for  all  the  properties,  he  had  taken  particular  pains 
with  whatever  related  to  his  holdings  in  this  company 
and  to  his  shipping  interests.  If  I  make  over  the 
properties  to  you,  Alan,  I  shall  begin  with  those;  for 
it  seems  to  me  that  your  father  was  particularly 
anxious  that  you  should  take  a  personal  as  well  as  a 
financial  place  among  the  men  who  control  the  traffic 
of  the  lakes.  I  have  told  Spearman  that  this  is  my 
intention.  He  has  not  been  able  to  see  it  my  way  as 
yet ;  but  he  may  change  his  views,  I  think,  after  meeting 
you." 

Sherrill  got  up.  Alan  arose  a  little  unsteadily. 
The  list  of  properties  he  had  read  and  the  letter  and 
Sherrill's  statement  portended  so  much  that  its  mean- 
ing could  not  all  come  to  him  at  once.  He  followed 
Sherrill  through  a  short  private  corridor,  flanked  with 
files  lettered  "  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman,"  into 
the  large  room  he  had  seen  when  he  came  in  with  Con- 
stance. They  crossed  this,  and  Sherrill,  without 
knocking,  opened  the  door  of  the  office  marked,  "  Mr. 
Spearman."  Alan,  looking  on  past  Sherrill  as  the  door 
opened,  saw  that  there  were  some  half  dozen  men  in 
the  room,  smoking  and  talking.  They  were  big  men 
mostly,  ruddy-skinned  and  weather-beaten  in  look,  and 
he  judged  from  their  appearance,  and  from  the  pile  of 
their,  hats  and  coats  upon  a  chair,  that  they  were  offi- 
cers of  the  company's  ships,  idle  Avhile  the  ships  were 
laid  up,  but  reporting  now  at  the  offices  and  receiving 
instructions  as  the  time  for  fitting  out  approached. 

His  gaze  went  swiftly  on  past  these  men  to  the  one 


THE  DEED  IN  TRUST  125 

who,  half  seated  on  the  top  of  the  flat  desk,  had  been 
talking  to  them;  and  his  pulse  closed  upon  his  heart 
with  a  shock;  he  started,  choked  with  astonishment, 
then  swiftly  forced  himself  under  control.  For  this 
was  the  man  whom  he  had  met  and  whom  he  had  fought 
in  Benjamin  Corvet's  house  the  night  before  —  the  big 
man  surprised  in  his  blasphemy  of  Corvet  and  of  souls 
"  in  Hell "  who,  at  sight  of  an  apparition  with  a  bullet 
hole  above  its  eye,  had  cried  out  in  his  fright,  "  You 
got  Ben !  But  you  won't  get  me  —  damn  you !  Damn 
you ! " 

Alan's  shoulders  drew  up  slightly,  and  the  muscles 
of  his  hands  tightened,  as  Sherrill  led  him  to  this  man. 
Sherrill  put  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder;  his  other 
hand  was  still  on  Alan's  arm. 

"  Henry,"  he  said  to  the  man,  "  this  is  Alan  Conrad. 
Alan,  I  want  you  to  know  my  partner,  Mr.  Spearman." 

Spearman  nodded  an  acknowledgment,  but  did  not 
put  out  his  hand ;  his  eyes  —  steady,  bold,  watchful  eyes 
—  seemed  measuring  Alan  attentively ;  and  in  return 
Alan,  with  his  gaze,  was  measuring  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ME.  CORVET'S  PARTNER 

THE  instant  of  meeting,  when  Alan  recognized  in 
Sherrill's  partner  the  man  with  whom  he  had 
fought  in  Corvet's  house,  was  one  of  swift  read- 
justment of  all  his  thought  —  adjustment  to  a  situa- 
tion of  which  he  could  not  even  have  dreamed,  and 
which  left  him  breathless.  But  for  Spearman,  ob- 
viously, it  was  not  that.  Following  his  noncommittal 
nod  of  acknowledgment  of  Sherrill's  introduction  and 
his  first  steady  scrutiny  of  Alan,  the  big,  handsome 
man  swung  himself  off  from  the  desk  on  which  he  sat 
and  leaned  against  it,  facing  them  more  directly. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  Conrad,"  he  said.  His  tone  was  hearty ; 
in  it  Alan  could  recognize  only  so  much  of  reserve  as 
might  be  expected  from  Sherrill's  partner  who  had 
taken  an  attitude  of  opposition.  The  shipmasters, 
looking  on,  could  see,  no  doubt,  not  even  that ;  except 
for  the  excitement  which  Alan  himself  could  not  conceal, 
it  must  appear  to  them  only  an  ordinary  introduction. 

Alan  fought  sharply  down  the  swift  rush  of  his  blood 
and  the  tightening  of  his  muscles. 

"  I  can  say  truly  that  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr. 
Spearman,"  he  managed. 

There  was  no  recognition  of  anything  beyond  the 
mere  surface  meaning  of  the  words  in  Spearman's  slow 
smile  of  acknowledgment,  as  he  turned  from  Alan  to 
Sherrill. 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  127 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  taken  rather  a  bad  time,  Law- 
rence." 

"  You're  busy,  you  mean.  This  can  wait,  Henry,  if 
what  you're  doing  is  immediate." 

"  I  want  some  of  these  men  to  be  back  in  Michigan 
to-night.  Can't  we  get  together  later  —  this  after- 
noon? You'll  be  about  here  this  afternoon?"  His 
manner  was  not  casual;  Alan  could  not  think  of  any 
expression  of  that  man  as  being  casual;  but  this,  he 
thought,  came  as  near  it  as  Spearman  could  come. 

"  I  think  I  can  be  here  this  afternoon,"  Alan  said. 

"  Would  two-thirty  suit  you?  " 

"  As  well  as  any  other  time." 

"  Let's  say  two-thirty,  then."  Spearman  turned  and 
noted  the  hour  almost  solicitously  among  the  scrawled 
appointments  on  his  desk  pad ;  straightening,  after  this 
act  of  dismissal,  he  walked  with  them  to  the  door,  his 
hand  on  Sherrill's  shoulder. 

"  Circumstances  have  put  us  —  Mr.  Sherrill  and  my- 
self —  in  a  very  difficult  position,  Conrad,"  he  re- 
marked. "  We  want  much  to  be  fair  to  all  con- 
cerned — " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  halted  at  the  door. 
Sherrill  went  out,  and  Alan  followed  him ;  exasperation 
—  half  outrage  yet  half  admiration  —  at  Spearman's 
bearing,  held  Alan  speechless.  The  blood  rushed  hotly 
to  his  skin  as  the  door  closed  behind  them,  his  hands 
clenched,  and  he  turned  back  to  the  closed  door;  then 
he  checked  himself  and  followed  Sherrill,  who,  oblivious 
to  Alan's  excitement,  led  the  way  to  the  door  which 
bore  Corvet's  name.  He  opened  it,  disclosing  an  empty 
room,  somewhat  larger  than  Spearman's  and  similar  to 
it,  except  that  it  lacked  the  marks  of  constant  use.  It 


128  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

was  plain  that,  since  Spearman  had  chosen  to  put  ofc 
discussion  of  Alan's  status,  Sherrill  did  not  know  what 
next  to  do;  he  stood  an  instant  in  thought,  then,  con- 
tenting himself  with  inviting  Alan  to  lunch,  he  excused 
himself  to  return  to  his  office.  When  he  had  gone, 
closing  the  door  behind  him,  Alan  began  to  pace  swiftly 
up  and  down  the  room. 

What  had  just  passed  had  left  him  still  breathless; 
he  felt  bewildered.  If  every  movement  of  Spearman's 
great,  handsome  body  had  not  recalled  to  him  their 
struggle  of  the  night  before  —  if,  as  Spearman's  hand 
rested  cordially  on  Sherrill's  shoulder,  Alan  had  not 
seemed  to  feel  again  that  big  hand  at  his  throat  —  he 
would  almost  have  been  ready  to  believe  that  this  was 
not  the  man  whom  he  had  fought.  But  he  could  not 
doubt  that ;  he  had  recognized  Spearman  beyond  ques- 
tion. And  Spearman  had  recognized  him  —  he  was 
sure  of  that ;  he  could  not  for  an  instant  doubt  it ; 
Spearman  had  known  it  was  Alan  whom  he  had  fought 
in  Corvet's  house  even  before  Sherrill  had  brought  them 
together.  Was  there  not  further  proof  of  that  in 
Spearman's  subsequent  manner  toward  him  ?  For  what 
was  all  this  cordiality  except  defiance?  Undoubtedly 
Spearman  had  acted  just  as  he  had  to  show  how  undis- 
turbed he  was,  how  indifferent  he  might  be  to  any 
accusation  Alan  could  make.  Not  having  told  Sherrill 
of  the  encounter  in  the  house  —  not  having  told  any  one 
else  —  Alan  could  not  tell  it  now,  after  Sherrill  had 
informed  him  that  Spearman  opposed  his  accession  to 
Corvet's  estate;  or,  at  least,  he  could  not  tell  who  the 
man  was.  In  the  face  of  Spearman's  manner  toward 
him  to-day,  Sherrill  would  not  believe.  If  Spearman 
denied  it  —  and  his  story  of  his  return  to  town  that 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  129 

morning  made  it  perfectly  certain  that  he  would  deny 
it  —  it  would  be  only  Alan's  word  against  Spearman's 
—  the  word  of  a  stranger  unknown  to  Sherrill  except 
by  Alan's  own  account  of  himself  and  the  inferences 
from  Corvet's  acts.  There  could  be  no  risk  to  Spear- 
man in  that;  he  had  nothing  to  fear  if  Alan  blurted 
an  accusation  against  him.  Spearman,  perhaps,  even 
wanted  him  to  do  that  —  hoped  he  would  do  it.  Noth- 
ing could  more  discredit  Alan  than  such  an  unsustain- 
able accusation  against  the  partner  who  was  opposing 
Alan's  taking  his  father's  place.  For  it  had  been  plain 
that  Spearman  dominated  Sherrill,  and  that  Sherrill 
felt  confidence  in  and  admiration  toward  him. 

Alan  grew  hot  with  the  realization  that,  in  the  inter- 
view just  past,  Spearman  had  also  dominated  him.  He 
had  been  unable  to  find  anything  adequate  to  do,  any- 
thing adequate  to  answer,  in  opposition  to  this  man 
more  than  fifteen  years  older  than  himself  and  having 
a  lifelong  experience  in  dealing  with  all  kinds  of  men. 
He  would  not  yield  to  Spearman  like  that  again;  it 
was  the  bewilderment  of  his  recognition  of  Spearman 
that  had  made  him  do  it.  Alan  stopped  his  pacing 
and  flung  himself  down  in  the  leather  desk-chair  which 
had  been  Corvet's.  He  could  hear,  at  intervals,  Spear- 
man's heavy,  genial  voice  addressing  the  ship  men  in  his 
office ;  its  tones  —  half  of  comradeship,  half  of  com- 
mand —  told  only  too  plainly  his  dominance  over  those 
men  also.  He  heard  Spearman's  office  door  open  and 
some  of  the  men  go  out ;  after  a  time  it  opened  again, 
and  the  rest  went  out.  He  heard  Spearman's  voice  in 
the  outer  office,  then  heard  it  again  as  Spearman  re- 
turned alone  into  his  private  office. 

There  was  a  telephone  upon  Corvet's  desk  which  un- 


130  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

doubtedly  connected  with  the  switchboard  in  the  gen- 
eral office.  Alan  picked  up  the  receiver  and  asked  for 
"  Mr.  Spearman."  At  once  the  hearty  voice  answered, 
"  Yes." 

"  This  is  Conrad." 

"  I  thought  I  told  you  I  was  busy,  Conrad !  "  The 
'phone  clicked  as  Spearman  hung  up  the  receiver. 

The  quality  of  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
had  altered;  it  had  become  suddenly  again  the  harsh 
voice  of  the  man  who  had  called  down  curses  upon 
"  Ben  "  and  on  men  "  in  Hell "  in  Corvet's  library. 

Alan  sat  back  in  his  chair,  smiling  a  little.  It  had 
not  been  for  him,  then  —  that  pretense  of  an  almost 
mocking  cordiality ;  Spearman  was  not  trying  to  de- 
ceive or  to  influence  Alan  by  that.  It  had  been  merely 
for  SherrilPs  benefit;  or,  rather,  it  had  been  because, 
in  SherrilPs  presence,  this  had  been  the  most  effective 
weapon  against  Alan  which  Spearman  could  employ. 
Spearman  might,  or  might  not,  deny  to  Alan  his  iden- 
tity with  the  man  whom  Alan  had  fought;  as  yet  Alan 
did  not  know  which  Spearman  would  do;  but,  at  least, 
between  themselves  there  was  to  be  no  pretense  about 
the  antagonism,  the  opposition  they  felt  toward  one 
another. 

Little  prickling  thrills  of  excitement  were  leaping 
through  Alan,  as  he  got  up  and  moved  about  the  room 
again.  The  room  was  on  a  corner,  and  there  were  two 
windows,  one  looking  to  the  east  over  the  white  and  blue 
expanse  of  the  harbor  and  the  lake ;  the  other  showing 
the  roofs  and  chimneys,  the  towers  and  domes  of  Chi- 
cago, reaching  away  block  after  block,  mile  after  mile 
to  the  south  and  west,  till  they  dimmed  and  blurred  in 
the  brown  haze  of  the  sunlit  smoke.  Power  and  pos- 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  131 

session  —  both  far  exceeding  Alan's  most  extravagant 
dream  —  were  promised  him  by  those  papers  which 
Sherrill  had  shown  him.  When  he  had  read  down  the 
list  of  those  properties,  he  had  had  no  more  feeling, 
that  such  things  could  be  his  than  he  had  had  at  first 
that  Corvet's  house  could  be  his  —  until  he  had  heard 
the  intruder  moving  in  that  house.  And  now  it  was  the 
sense  that  another  was  going  to  make  him  fight  for 
those  properties  that  was  bringing  to  him  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  new  power.  He  "  had  "  something  on  that 
man  —  on  Spearman.  He  did  not  know  what  that 
thing  was ;  no  stretch  of  his  thought,  nothing  that  he 
knew  about  himself  or  others,  could  tell  him ;  but,  at 
sight  of  him,  in  the  dark  of  Corvet's  house,  Spearman 
had  cried  out  in  horror,  he  had  screamed  at  him  the 
name  of  a  sunken  ship,  and  in  terror  had  hurled  his 
electric  torch.  It  was  true,  Spearman's  terror  had  not 
been  at  Alan  Conrad;  it  had  been  because  Spearman 
had  mistaken  him  for  some  one  else  —  for  a  ghost. 
But,  after  learning  that  Alan  was  not  a  ghost,  Spear- 
man's attitude  had  not  very  greatly  changed;  he  had 
fought,  he  had  been  willing  to  kill  rather  than  to  be 
caught  there. 

Alan  thought  an  instant ;  he  would  make  sure  he  still 
"  had  "  that  something  on  Spearman  and  would  learn 
how  far  it  went.  He  took  up  the  receiver  and  asked  for 
Spearman  again. 

Again  the  voice  answered  — "  Yes.'* 

"  I  don't  care  whether  you're  busy,"  Alan  said  evenly. 
"  I  think  you  and  I  had  better  have  a  talk  before  we 
meet  with  Mr.  Sherrill  this  afternoon.  I  am  here  in 
Mr.  Corvet's  office  now  and  will  be  here  for  half  an 
hour ;  then  I'm  going  out." 


132  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Spearman  made  no  reply  but  again  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver. Alan  sat  waiting,  his  watch  upon  the  desk 
before  him  —  tense,  expectant,  with  flushes  of  hot  and 
cold  passing  over  him.  Ten  minutes  passed;  then 
twenty.  The  telephone  under  Corvet's  desk  buzzed. 

"Mr.  Spearman  says  he  will  give  you  five  minutes 
now,"  the  switchboard  girl  said. 

Alan  breathed  deep  with  relief ;  Spearman  had  wanted 
to  refuse  to  see  him  —  but  he  had  not  refused ;  he  had 
sent  for  him  within  the  time  Alan  had  appointed  and 
after  waiting  until  just  before  it  expired. 

Alan  put  his  watch  back  into  his  pocket  and,  crossing 
to  the  other  office,  found  Spearman  alone.  There  was 
no  pretense  of  courtesy  now  in  Spearman's  manner;  he 
sat  motionless  at  his  desk,  his  bold  eyes  fixed  on  Alan 
intently.  Alan  closed  the  door  b,ehind  him  and  ad- 
vanced toward  the  desk. 

"  I  thought  we'd  better  have  some  explanation,"  he 
said,  "  about  our  meeting  last  night." 

"Our  meeting?"  Spearman  repeated;  his  eyes  had 
narrowed  watchfully. 

"  You  told  Mr.  Sherrill  that  you  were  in  Duluth  and 
that  you  arrived  home  in  Chicago  only  this  morning. 
Of  course  you  don't  mean  to  stick  to  ihat  story  with 
me?" 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ? "  Spearman  de- 
manded. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  exactly  where  you  were  a  part 
of  last  evening;  and  you  know  that  I  know.  I  only 
want  to  know  what  explanation  you  have  to  offer. 

Spearman  leaned  forward.  "  Talk  sense  and  talk  it 
quick,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me !  " 

"I  haven't  told  Mr.  Sherrill  that  I  found  you  at 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  138 

Corvet's  house  last  night;  but  I  don't  want  you  to 
doubt  for  a  minute  that  I  know  you  —  and  about  your 
damning  of  Benjamin  Corvet  and  your  cry  about  saving 
the  Miwakal  " 

A  flash  of  blood  came  to  Spearman's  face;  Alan,  in 
his  excitement,  was  sure  of  it;  but  there  was  just  that 
flash,  no  more.  He  turned,  while  Spearman  sat  chew- 
ing his  cigar  and  staring  at  him,  and  went  out  and 
partly  closed  the  door.  Then,  suddenly,  he  reopened  it, 
looked  in,  reclosed  it  sharply,  and  went  on  his  way, 
shaking  a  little.  For,  as  he  looked  back  this  second 
time  at  the  dominant,  determined,  able  man  seated  at 
his  desk,  what  he  had  seen  in  Spearman's  face  was  fear ; 
fear  of  himself,  of  Alan  Conrad  of  Blue  Rapids  —  yet 
it  was  not  fear  of  that  sort  which  weakens  or  dismays ; 
it  was  of  that  sort  which,  merely  warning  of  danger 
close  at  hand,  determines  one  to  use  every  means  within 
his  power  to  save  himself. 

Alan,  still  trembling  excitedly,  crossed  to  Corvet's 
office  to  await  Sherrill.  It  was  not,  he  felt  sure  now, 
Alan  Conrad  that  Spearman  was  opposing;  it  was  not 
even  the  apparent  successor  to  the  controlling  stock  of 
Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman.  That  Alan  resembled 
some  one  —  some  one  whose  ghost  had  seemed  to  come 
to  Spearman  and  might,  perhaps,  have  come  to  Corvet 
—  was  only  incidental  to  what  was  going  on  now ;  for 
in  Alan's  presence  Spearman  found  a  threat  —  an 
active,  present  threat  against  himself.  Alan  could  not 
imagine  what  the  nature  of  that  threat  could  be.  Was 
it  because  there  was  something  still  concealed  in  Cor- 
vet's house  which  Spearman  feared  Alan  would  find? 
Or  was  it  connected  only  with  that  some  one  whom 
Alan  resembled?  Who  was  it  Alan  resembled?  His 


134-  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

mother?  In  what  had  been  told  him,  in  all  that  he 
had  been  able  to  learn  about  himself,  Alan  had  found 
no  mention  of  his  mother  —  no  mention,  indeed,  of  any 
woman.  There  had  been  mention,  definite  mention,  of 
but  one  thing1  which  seemed,  no  matter  what  form  these 
new  experiences  of  his  took,  to  connect  himself  with  all 
of  them  —  mention  of  a  ship,  a  lost  ship  —  the  Miwaka. 
That  name  had  stirred  Alan,  when  he  first  heard  it,  with 
the  first  feeling  he  had  been  able  to  get  of  any  pos- 
sible connection  between  himself  and  these  people  here. 
Spoken  by  himself  just  now  it  had  stirred,  queerly 
stirred,  Spearman.  What  was  it,  then,  that  he  —  Alan 
—  had  to  do  with  the  Miwaka?  Spearman  might  — 
must  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  So  must  Cor- 
vet.  But  himself  —  he  had  been  not  yet  three  years  old 
when  the  Miwaka  was  lost !  Beyond  and  above  all  other 
questions,  what  had  Constance  Sherrill  to  do  with  it? 
She  had  continued  to  believe  that  Corvet's  disappear- 
ance was  related  in  some  way  to  herself.  Alan  would 
rather  trust  her  intuition  as  to  this  than  trust  to  Sher- 
rill's  contrary  opinion.  Yet  she,  certainly,  could  have 
had  no  direct  connection  with  a  ship  lost  about  the 
time  she  was  born  and  before  her  father  had  allied 
himself  with  the  firm  of  Corvet  and  Spearman.  In  the 
misty  warp  and  woof  of  these  events,  Alan  could  find 
as  yet  nothing  which  could  have  involved  her.  But  he 
realized  that  he  was  thinking  about  her  even  more  than 
he  was  thinking  about  Spearman  —  more,  at  that  mo- 
ment, even  than  about  the  mystery  which  surrounded 
himself. 

Constance  Sherrill,  as  she  went  about  her  shopping  at 
Field's,  was  feeling  the  strangeness  of  the  experience 


MR.  CORVETS  PARTNER  135 

she  had  shared  that  morning  with  Alan  when  she  had 
completed  for  him  the  Indian  creation  legend  and  had 
repeated  the  ship  rhymes  of  his  boyhood ;  but  her  more 
active  thought  was  about  Henry  Spearman,  for  she 
had  a  luncheon  engagement  with  him  at  one  o'clock. 
He  liked  one  always  to  be  prompt  at  appointments ;  he 
either  did  not  keep  an  engagement  at  all,  or  he  was  on 
the  minute,  neither  early  nor  late,  except  for  some  very 
unusual  circumstance.  Constance  could  never  achieve 
such  accurate  punctuality,  so  several  minutes  before 
the  hour  she  went  to  the  agreed  corner  of  the  silverware 
department. 

She  absorbed  herself  intently  with  the  selection  of  her 
purchase  as  one  o'clock  approached.  She  was  sure 
that,  after  his  three  days'  absence,  he  would  be  a  mo- 
ment early  rather  than  late ;  but  after  selecting  what 
she  wanted,  she  monopolized  twelve  minutes  more  of  the 
salesman's  time  in  showing  her  what  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  purchasing,  before  she  picked  out  Henry's  vig- 
orous step  from  the  confusion  of  ordinary  footfalls  in 
the  aisle  behind  her.  Though  she  had  determined,  a 
few  moments  before,  to  punish  him  a  little,  she  turned 
quickly. 

"  Sorry  I'm  late,  Connie."  That  meant  that  it  was 
no  ordinary  business  matter  that  had  detained  him ; 
but  there  was  nothing  else  noticeably  unusual  in  his 
tone. 

"  It's  certainly  your  turn  to  be  the  tardy  one,"  she 
admitted. 

"  I'd  never  take  my  turn  if  I  coulcl  help  it  —  partic- 
ularly just  after  being  away;  you  know  that." 

She  turned  carelessly  to  the  clerk.  "  I'll  take  that 
too," —  she  indicated  the  trinket  which  she  had  exam- 


136  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

ined  last.  "  Send  it,  please.  I've  finished  here  now, 
Henry." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  like  that  sort  of  thing."  His 
glance  had  gone  to  the  bit  of  frippery  in  the  clerk's 
hand. 

"I  don't,"  she  confessed. 

"  Then  don't  buy  it.  She  doesn't  want  that ;  don't 
send  it,"  he  directed  the  salesman. 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

Henry  touched  her  arm  and  turned  her  away.  She 
flushed  a  little,  but  she  was  not  displeased.  Any  of  the 
other  men  whom  she  knew  would  have  wasted  twenty 
dollars,  as  lightly  as  herself,  rather  than  confess,  "  I 
really  didn't  want  anything  more;  I  just  didn't  want 
to  be  seen  waiting."  They  would  not  have  admitted  — 
those  other  men  —  that  such  a  sum  made  the  slightest 
difference  to  her  or,  by  inference,  to  them;  but  Henry 
was  always  willing  to  admit  that  there  had  been  a  time 
when  money  meant  much  to  him,  and  he  gained  respect 
thereby. 

The  tea  room  of  such  a  department  store  as  Field's 
offers  to  young  people  opportunities  for  dining  together 
without  furnishing  reason  for  even  innocently  connect- 
ing their  names  too  intimately,  if  a  girl  is  not  seen  there 
with  the  same  man  too  often.  There  is  something 
essentially  casual  and  unpremeditated  about  it  —  a? 
though  the  man  and  the  girl,  both  shopping  and  both 
hungry,  had  just  happened  to  meet  and  go  to  lunch 
together.  As  Constance  recently  had  drawn  closer  to 
Henry  Spearman  in  her  thought,  and  particularly  since 
she  had  been  seriously  considering  marrying  him,  she 
had  clung  deliberately  to  this  unplanned  appearance 
about  their  meetings.  She  found  something  thrilling 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  137 

in  this  casualness  too.  Spearman's  bigness,  which  at- 
tracted eyes  to  him  always  in  a  crowd,  was  merely  the 
first  and  most  obvious  of  the  things  which  kept  atten- 
tion on  him ;  there  were  few  women  who,  having  caught 
sight  of  the  big,  handsome,  decisive,  carefully  groomed 
man,  could  look  away  at  once.  If  Constance  sus- 
pected that,  ten  years  before,  it  might  have  been  the 
eyes  of  shop-girls  that  followed  Spearman  with  the 
greatest  interest,  she  was  certain  no  one  could  find  any- 
thing flashy  about  him  now.  What  he  compelled  now 
was  admiration  and  respect  alike  for  his  good  looks  and 
his  appearance  of  personal  achievement  —  a  tribute 
very  different  from  the  tolerance  granted  those  boys 
brought  up  as  irresponsible  inheritors  of  privilege  like 
herself. 

As  they  reached  the  restaurant  and  passed  between 
the  rows  of  tables,  women  looked  up  at  him ;  oblivious, 
apparently,  to  their  gaze,  he  chose  a  table  a  little  ro- 
moved  from  the  others,  where  servants  hurried  to  take 
his  order,  recognizing  one  whose  time  was  of  impor- 
tance. She  glanced  across  at  him,  when  she  had  settled 
herself,  and  the  first  little  trivialities  of  their  being 
together  were  over. 

"  I  took  a  visitor  down  to  your  office  this  morning," 
she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

Constance  was  aware  that  it  was  only  formally  that 
she  had  taken  Alan  Conrad  down  to  confer  with  her 
father;  since  Henry  was  there,  she  knew  her  father 
would  not  act  without  his  agreement,  and  that  what- 
ever disposition  had  been  made  regarding  Alan  had 
been  made  by  him.  She  wondered  what  that  dispo- 
sition had  been. 


138  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  Did  you  like  him,  Henry  ?  " 

"Like  him?"  She  would  have  thought  that  the 
reply  was  merely  inattentive;  but  Henry  was  never 
merely  that. 

"  I  hoped  you  would." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  The  waitress  brought 
their  order,  and  he  served  her;  then,  as  the  waitress 
moved  away,  he  looked  across  at  Constance  with  a  long 
scrutiny. 

"  You  hoped  I  would !  "  he  repeated,  with  his  slow 
smile.  "Why?" 

"  He  seemed  to  be  in  a  difficult  position  and  to  be 
bearing  himself  well ;  and  mother  was  horrid  to  him." 

"How  was  she  horrid?" 

"  About  the  one  thing  which,  least  of  all,  could  be 
called  his  fault  —  about  his  relationship  to  -1-  to  Mr. 
Corvet.  But  he  stood  up  to  her! " 

The  lids  drew  down  a  little  upon  Spearman's  eyes  as 
he  gazed  at  her. 

"  You've  seen  a  good  deal  of  him,  yesterday  and  to- 
day, your  father  tells  me,"  he  observed. 

"  Yes."  As  she  ate,  she  talked,  telling  him  about  her 
first  meeting  with  Alan  and  about  their  conversation  of 
the  morning  and  the  queer  awakening  in  him  of  those 
half  memories  which  seemed  to  connect  him  in  some  way 
with  the  lakes.  She  felt  herself  flushing  now  and  then 
with  feeling,  and  once  she  surprised  herself  by  finding 
her  eyes  wet  when  she  had  finished  telling  Henry  about 
showing  Alan  the  picture  of  his  father.  Henry  listened 
intently,  eating  slowly.  When  she  stopped,  he  ap- 
peared to  be  considering  something. 

"  That's  all  he  told  you  about  himself?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes." 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  13fc 

"And  all  you  told  him?" 

"  He  asked  me  some  things  about  the  lakes  and  about 
the  Mmaka,  which  was  lost  so  long  ago  —  he  said  he'd 
found  some  reference  to  that  and  wanted  to  know 
whether  it  was  a  ship.  I  told  him  about  it  and  about 
the  Drum  which  made  people  think  that  the  crew  were 
not  all  lost." 

"  About  the  Drum !  What  made  you  speak  of 
that?  "  The  irritation  in  his  tone  startled  her  and  she 
looked  quickly  up  at  him.  "  I  mean,"  he  offered,  "  why 
did  you  drag  in  a  crazy  superstition  like  that?  You 
don't  believe  in  the  Drum,  Connie ! " 

"  It  would  be  so  interesting  if  some  one  really  had 
been  saved  and  if  the  Drum  had  told  the  truth,  that 
sometimes  I  think  I'd  like  to  believe  in  it.  Wouldn't 
you,  Henry?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  abruptly.     «  No !  "     Then  quickly : 

"  It's  plain  enough  you  like  him,"  he  remarked. 

She  reflected  seriously.  "  Yes,  I  do ;  though  I 
hadn't  thought  of  it  just  that  way,  because  I  was  think- 
ing most  about  the  position  he  was  in'  and  about  — 
Mr.  Corvet.  But  I  do  like  him." 

"  So  do  I,"  Spearman  said  with  a  seeming  heartiness 
that  pleased  her.  He  broke  a  piece  of  bread  upon  the 
tablecloth  and  his  big,  well-shaped  fingers  began  to  roll 
it  into  little  balls.  "  At  least  I  should  like  him,  Con- 
nie, if  I  had  the  sort  of  privilege  you  have  to  think 
whether  I  liked  or  disliked  him.  I've  had  to  consider 
him  from  another  point  of  view  —  whether  I  could  trust 
him  or  must  distrust  him." 

"Distrust?"  Constance  bent  toward  him  impul- 
sively in  her  surprise.  "  Distrust  him  ?  In  relation 
to  what?  Why?" 


140  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  In  relation  to  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman,  Con- 
nie—  the  company  that  involves  your  interests  and 
your  father's  and  mine  and  the  interests  of  many  other 
people  —  small  stockholders  who  have  no  influence  in 
its  management,  and  whose  interests  I  have  to  look 
after  for  them.  A  good  many  of  them,  you  know,  are 
our  own  men  —  our  old  skippers  and  mates  and  fami- 
lies of  men  who  have  died  in  our  service  and  who  left 
their  savings  in  stock  in  our  ships." 

"  I  don't  understand,  Henry." 

"I've  had  to  think  of  Conrad  this  morning  in  the 
same  way  as  I've  had  to  think  of  Ben  Corvet  of  recent 
years  —  as  a  threat  against  the  interests  of  those  peo- 
ple." 

Her  color  rose,  and  her  pulse  quickened.  Henry 
never  had  talked  to  her,  except  in  the  merest  common- 
places, about  his  relations  with  Uncle  Benny ;  it  was  a 
matter  in  which,  she  had  recognized,  they  had  been  op- 
posed; and  since  the  quarrels  between  the  old  friend 
whom  she  had  loved  from  childhood  and  him,  who 
wished  to  become  now  more  than  a  mere  friend  to  her, 
had  grown  more  violent,  she  had  purposely  avoided 
mentioning  Uncle  Benny  to  Henry,  and  he,  quite  as 
consciously,  had  avoided  mentioning  Mr.  Corvet  to  her. 

"  I've  known  for  a  good  many  years,"  Spearman 
said  reluctantly,  "  that  Ben  Corvet's  brain  was  seri- 
ously affected.  He  recognized  that  himself  even  ear-> 
Her,  and  admitted  it  to  himself  when  he  took  me  off 
my  ship  to  take  charge  of  the  company.  I  might  have 
gone  with  other  people  then,  or  it  wouldn't  have  been 
very  long  before  I  could  have  started  in  as  a  ship 
owner  myself;  but,  in  view  of  his  condition,  Ben  made 
me  promises  that  offered  me  most.  Afterwards  his 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  141 

malady  progressed  so  that  he  couldn't  know  himself  to 
be  untrustworthy;  his  judgment  was  impaired,  and  he 
planned  and  would  have  tried  to  carry  out  many  things 
which  would  have  been  disastrous  for  the  company.  I 
had  to  fight  him  —  for  the  company's  sake  and  for  my 
own  sake  and  that  of  the  others,  whose  interests  were  at 
stake.  Your  father  came  to  see  that  what  I  was  doing 
was  for  the  company's  good  and  has  learned  to  trust 
me.  But  you  —  you  couldn't  see  that  quite  so  di- 
rectly, of  course,  and  you  thought  I  didn't  —  like  Ben, 
that  there  was  some  lack  in  me  which  made  me  fail  to 
appreciate  him." 

"  No ;  not  that,"  Constance  denied  quickly.  "  Not 
that,  Henry." 

"What  was  it  then,  Connie?  You  thought  me  un- 
grateful to  him?  I  realized  that  I  owed  a  great  deal 
to  him;  but  the  only  way  I  could  pay, that  debt  was  to 
do  exactly  what  I  did  —  oppose  him  and  seem  to  push 
into  his  place  and  be  an  ingrate;  for,  because  I  did 
that,  Ben's  been  a  respected  and  honored  man  in  this 
town  all  these  last  years,  which  he  couldn't  have  re- 
mained if  I'd  let  him  have  his  way,  or  if  I  told  others 
why  I  had  to  do  what  I  did.  I  didn't  care  what  others 
thought  about  me;  but  I  did  care  what  you  thought; 
yet  if  you  couldn't  see  what  I  was  up  against  because 
of  your  affection  for  him,  why  —  that  was  "  all  right 
too." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  all  right,"  she  denied  almost  fiercely, 
the  flush  flooding  her  cheeks ;  a  throbbing  was  in  her 
throat  which,  for  an  instant,  stopped  her.  "  You 
should  have  told  me,  Henry;  or  —  I  should  have  been 
able  to  see." 

"  I  couldn't  tell  vou  —  dear,"  he  said  the  last  word 


142  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

very  distinctly,  but  so  low  that  she  could  scarcely  hear. 
"  I  couldn't  tell  you  now  —  if  Ben  hadn't  gone  away 
as  he  has  and  this  other  fellow  come.  I  couldn't  tell 
you  when  you  wanted  to  keep  caring  so  much  for  your 
Uncle  Benny,  and  he  was  trying  to  hurt  me  with  you." 

She  bent  toward  him,  her  lips  parted ;  but  now  she 
did  not  speak.  She  never  had  really  known  Henry 
until  this  moment,  she  felt ;  she  had  thought  of  him  al- 
ways as  strong,  almost  brutal,  fighting  down  fiercely, 
mercilessly,  his  opponents  and  welcoming  contest  for 
the  joy  of  overwhelming  others  by  his  own  decisive 
strength  and  power.  And  she  had  been  almost  ready 
to  marry  that  man  for  his  strength  and  dominance 
from  those  qualities ;  and  now  she  knew  that  he  was 
merciful  too  —  indeed,  more  than  merciful.  In  the 
very  contest  where  she  had  thought  of  him  as  most 
selfish  and  regardless  of  another,  she  had  most  com- 
pletely misapprehended. 

"  I  ought  to  have  seen !  "  she  rebuked  herself  to  him. 
"  Surely,  I  should  have  seen  that  was  it !  "  Her  hand, 
in  the  reproach  of  her  feeling,  reached  toward  him 
across  the  table;  he  caught  it  and  held  it  in  his  large, 
strong  hand  which,  in  its  touch,  was  very  tender  too. 
She  had  never  allowed  any  such  demonstration  as  this 
before ;  but  now  she  let  her  hand  remain  in  his. 

"How  could  you  see?"  he  defended  her.  "He 
never  showed  to  you  the  side  he  showed  to  me  and  — 
in  these  last  years,  anyway  —  never  to  me  the  side  he 
showed  to  you.  But  after  what  has  happened  this 
week,  you  can  understand  now;  and  you  can  see  why  I 
have  to  distrust  the  young  fellow  who's  come  to  claim 
Ben  Covert's  place." 

"Claim!"  Constance  repeated;  she  drew  her  hand 


MR.  CORVET'S  PARTNER  143 

quietly  away  from  his  now.  "  Why,  Henry,  I  did  not 
know  he  claimed  anything;  he  didn't  even  know  when 
he  came  here  — " 

"  He  seems,  like  Ben  Corvet,"  Henry  said  slowly, 
"  to  have  the  characteristic  of  showing  one  side  to  you, 
another  to  me,  Connie.  With  you,  of  course,  he 
claimed  nothing;  but  at  the  office —  Your  father 
showed  him  this  morning  the  instruments  of  transfer 
that  Ben  seems  to  have  left  conveying  to  him  all  Ben 
had  —  his  other  properties  and  his  interest  in  Corvet, 
Sherrill,  and  Spearman.  I  very  naturally  objected  to 
the  execution  of  those  transfers,  without  considerable 
examination,  in  view  of  Corvet's  mental  condition  and 
of  the  fact  that  they  put  the  controlling  stock  of  Cor- 
vet, Sherrill,  and  Spearman  in  the  hands  of  a  youth 
no  one  ever  had  heard  of  —  and  one  who,  by  his  own 
story,  never  had  seen  a  ship  until  yesterday.  And 
when  I  didn't  dismiss  my  business  with  a  dozen  men  this 
morning  to  take  him  into  the  company,  he  claimed  oc- 
casion to  see  me  alone  to  threaten  me." 

"  Threaten  you,  Henry?     How?     With  what?  " 

"  I  couldn't  quite  make  out  myself,  but  that  was  his 
tone ;  he  demanded  an  '  explanation  '  of  exactly  what, 
he  didn't  make  clear.  He  has  been  given  by  Ben,  ap- 
parently, the  technical  control  of  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and 
Spearman.  His  idea,  if  I  oppose  him,  evidently  is  to 
turn  me  out  and  take  the  management  himself." 

Constance  leaned  back,  confused.  "  He  —  Alan 
Conrad?  "  she  questioned.  "  He  can't  have  done  that, 
Henry !  Oh,  he  can't  have  meant  that !  " 

"  Maybe  he  didn't ;  I  said  I  couldn't  make  out  what 
he  did  mean,"  Spearman  said.  "  Things  have  come 
upon  him  with  rather  a  rush,  of  course ;  and  you 


144  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

couldn't  expect  a  country  boy  to  get  so  many  things 
straight.  He's  acting,  I  suppose,  only  in  the  way  one 
might  expect  a  boy  to  act  who  had  been  brought  up  in 
poverty  on  a  Kansas  prairie  and  was  suddenly  handed 
the  possible  possession  of  a  good  many  millions  of  dol- 
lars. It's  better  to  believe  that  he's  only  lost  his  head. 
I  haven't  had  opportunity  to  tell  your  father  these 
things  yet;  but  I  wanted  you  to  understand  why  Con- 
rad will  hardly  consider  me  a  friend." 

"  I'll  understand  you  now,  Henry,"  she  promised. 

He  gazed  at  her  and  started  to  speak;  then,  as 
though  postponing  it  on  account  of  the  place,  he 
glanced  around  and  took  out  his  watch. 

"  You  must  go  back  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No ;  I'm  not  going  back  to  the  office  this  after- 
noon, Connie ;  but  I  must  call  up  your  father." 

He  excused  himself  and  went  into  the  nearest  tele- 
phone booth. 


CHAPTER  IX 

VIOLENCE 

AT  half-past  three,  Alan  left  the  office.     Sherrill 
had   told  him   an  hour  earlier  that  Spearman 
had  telephoned  he  would  not  be  able  to  get  back 
for  a  conference  that  afternoon ;  and  Alan  was  certain 
now  that  in  Spearman's  absence  Sherrill  would  do  noth- 
ing further  with  respect  to  his  affairs. 

He  halted  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  office  building 
and  bought  copies  of  each  of  the  afternoon  papers. 
A  line  completely  across  the  pink  page  of  one  an- 
nounced "Millionaire  Ship  Owner  Missing!"  The 
other  three  papers,  printed  at  the  same  hour,  did  not 
display  the  story  prominently ;  and  even  the  one  which 
did  failed  to  make  it  the  most  conspicuous  sensation. 
A  line  of  larger  and  blacker  type  told  of  a  change  in 
the  battle  line  on  the  west  front  and,  where  the  margin 
might  have  been,  was  the  bulletin  of  some  sensation  in  a 
local  divorce  suit.  Alan  was  some  time  in  finding  the 
small  print  which  went  with  the  millionaire  ship  owner 
heading;  and  when  he  found  it,  he  discovered  that  most 
of  the  space  was  devoted  to  the  description  of  Corvet's 
share  in  the  development  of  shipping  on  the  lakes  and 
the  peculiarity  of  his  past  life  instead  of  any  definite 
announcement  concerning  his  fate. 

The  other  papers  printed  almost  identical  items 
under  small  head-type  at  the  bottom  of  their  first 


146  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

pages;  these  items  stated  that  Benjamin  Corvet,  the 
senior  but  inactive  partner  of  the  great  shipping  firm 
of  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman,  whose  "  disappear- 
ance "  had  been  made  the  subject  of  sensational  rumor, 
"  is  believed  by  his  partner,  Mr.  Henry  Spearman,  to 
have  simply  gone  away  for  a  rest,"  and  that  no  anxiety 
was  felt  concerning  him.  Alan  found  no  mention  of 
himself  nor  any  of  the  circumstances  connected  with 
Corvet's  disappearance  of  which  Sherrill  had  told  him. 

Alan  threw  the  papers  away.  There  was  a  car  line 
two  blocks  west,  Sherrill  had  said,  which  would  take 
him  within  a  short  distance  of  the  house  on  Astor 
Street;  but  that  neighborhood  of  fashion  where  the 
Sherrills  —  and  now  Alan  himself  —  lived  was  less  than 
a  half  hour's  walk  from  the  down-town  district  and,  in 
the  present  turmoil  of  his  thoughts,  he  wanted  to  be 
moving. 

Spearman,  he  reflected  as  he  walked  north  along  the 
avenue,  plainly  had  dictated  the  paragraphs  he  just 
had  read  in  the  papers.  Sherrill,  Alan  knew,  had  de- 
sired to  keep  the  circumstances  regarding  Corvet  from 
becoming  public ;  and  without  Sherrill's  agreement 
concealment  would  have  been  impossible,  but  it  was 
Spearman  who  had  checked  the  suspicions  of  outsiders 
and  determined  what  they  must  believe;  and,  by  so 
doing,  he  had  made  it  impossible  for  Alan  to  enroll  aid 
from  the  newspapers  or  the  police.  Alan  did  not  know 
whether  he  might  have  found  it  expedient  to  seek  pub- 
licity ;  but  now  he  had  not  a  single  proof  of  anything 
he  could  tell.  For  Sherrill,  naturally,  had  retained 
the  papers  Corvet  had  left.  Alan  could  not  hope  to 
obtain  credence  from  Sherrill  and,  without  Sherrill's 
aid,  he  could  not  obtain  credence  from  any  one  else. 


VIOLENCE  147 

Was  there,  then,  no  one  whom  Alan  could  tell  of  his 
encounter  with  Spearman  in  Corvet's  house,  with  prob- 
ability of  receiving  belief?  Alan  had  not  been  think- 
ing directly  of  Constance  Sherrill,  as  he  walked  swiftly 
north  to  the  Drive;  but  she  was,  in  a  way,  present  in 
all  his  thoughts.  She  had  shown  interest  in  him,  or 
at  least  in  the  position  he  was  in,  and  sympathy;  he 
had  even  begun  to  tell  her  about  these  things  when  he 
had  spoken  to  her  of  some  event  in  Corvet's  house  which 
had  given  him  the  name  "  Miwaka,"  and  he  had  asked 
her  if  it  was  a  ship.  And  there  could  be  no  possible 
consequent  peril  to  her  in  telling  her ;  the  peril,  if  there 
was  any,  would  be  only  to  himself. 

His  step  quickened.  As  he  approached  the  Sherrill 
house,  he  saw  standing  at  the  curb  an  open  roadster 
with  a  liveried  chauffeur;  he  had  seen  that  roadster, 
he  recognized  with  a  little  start,  in  front  of  the  office 
building  that  morning  when  Constance  had  taken  him 
down-town.  He  turned  into  the  walk  and  rang  the 
bell. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  knew  him  and 
seemed  to  accept  his  right  of  entry  to  the  house,  for  he 
drew  back  for  Alan  to  enter.  Alan  went  into  the  hall 
and  waited  for  the  servant  to  follow.  "  Is  Miss  Sher- 
rill in  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'll  see,  sir."     The  man  disappeared.     Alan,  wait 
ing,  did  not  hear  Constance's  voice  in  reply  to  the  an- 
nouncement of  the'  servant,  but  Spearman's  vigorous 
tones.     The  servant  returned.     "  Miss  Sherrill  will  see 
you  in  a  minute,  sir." 

Through  the  wide  doorway  to  the  drawing-room, 
Alan  could  see  the  smaller,  portiered  entrance  to  the 
room  beyond  —  Sherrill's  study.  The  curtains  parted, 


148  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

and  Constance  and  Spearman  came  into  this  inner 
doorway;  they  stood  an  instant  there  in  talk.  As 
Constance  started  away,  Spearman  suddenly  drew  her 
back  to  him  and  kissed  her.  Alan's  shoulders  spon- 
taneously jerked  back,  and  his  hands  clenched;  he  did 
not  look  away  and,  as  she  approached,  she  became 
aware  that  he  had  seen. 

She  came  to  him,  very  quiet  and  very  flushed;  then 
she  was  quite  pale  as  she  asked  him,  "  You  wanted 
me?" 

He  was  white  as  she,  and  could  not  speak  at  once. 
"  You  told  me  last  night,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  said, 
"  that  the  last  thing  that  Mr.  Corvet  did  —  the  last 
that  you  know  of  —  was  to  warn  you  against  one  of 
your  friends.  Who  was  that?" 

She  flushed  uneasily.  "  You  mustn't  attach  any  im- 
portance to  that ;  I  didn't  mean  you  to.  There  was  no 
reason  for  what  Mr.  Corvet  said,  except  in  Mr.  Cor- 
vet's  own  mind.  He  had  a  quite  unreasonable  animos- 

ity-"  > 

"  Against  Mr.  Spearman,  you  mean." 

She  did  not  answer. 

".His  animosity  was  against  Mr.  Spearman,  Miss 
Sherrill,  wasn't  it?  That  is  the  only  animosity  of  Mr. 
Corvet's  that  any  one  has  told  me  about." 

"  Yes." 

"  It  was  against  Mr.  Spearman  that  he  warned  you, 
then?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Thank  you."  He  turned  and,  not  waiting  for  the 
man,  let  himself  out.  He  should  have  known  it  when 
he  had  seen  that  Spearman,  after  announcing  himself 
as  unable  to  get  back  to  the  office,  was  with  Constance. 


VIOLENCE  149 

He  went  swiftly  around  the  block  to  his  own  house 
and  let  himself  in  at  the  front  door  with  his  key. 
The  house  was  warm ;  a  shaded  lamp  on  the  table  in  the 
larger  library  was  lighted,  a  fire  was  burning  in  the 
open  grate,  and  the  rooms  had  been  swept  and  dusted. 
The  Indian  came  into  the  hall  to  take  his  coat  and  hat. 

"  Dinner  is  at  seven,"  Wassaquam  announced. 
"  You  want  some  change  about  that?  " 

"  No ;  seven  is  all  right." 

Alan  went  up-stairs  to  the  room  next  to  Corvet's 
which  he  had  appropriated  for  his  own  use  the  night 
before,  and  found  it  now  prepared  for  his  occupancy. 
His  suitcase,  unpacked,  had  been  put  away  in  the 
closet;  the  clothing  it  had  contained  had  been  put  in 
the  dresser  drawers,  and  the  toilet  articles  arranged 
upon  the  top  of  the  dresser  and  in  the  cabinet  of  the 
little  connecting  bath.  So,  clearly,  Wassaquam  had 
accepted  him  as  an  occupant  of  the  house,  though  upon 
what  status  Alan  could  not  guess.  He  had  spoken  of 
Wassaquam  to  Constance  as  his  servant ;  but  Wassa- 
quam was  not  that ;  he  was  Corvet's  servant  —  faithful 
and  devoted  to  Corvet,  Constance  had  said  —  and  Alan 
could  not  think  of  Wassaquam  as  the  sort  of  servant 
that  "  went  with  the  house."  The  Indian's  manner  to- 
ward himself  had  been  noncommittal,  even  stolid. 

When  Alan  came  down  again  to  the  first  floor,  Was- 
saquam was  nowhere  about,  but  he  heard  sounds  in  the 
service  rooms  on  the  basement  floor.  He  went  part 
way  down  the  service  stairs  and  saw  the  Indian  in  the 
kitchen,  preparing  dinner.  Wassaquam  had  not  heard 
his  approach,  and  Alan  stood  an  instant  watching  the 
Indian's  tall,  thin  figure  and  the  quick  movements  of 
his  disproportionately  small,  well-shaped  hands,  almost 


150  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

like  a  woman's;  then  he  scuffed  his  foot  upon  the  stair, 
and  Wassaquam  turned  swiftly  about. 

"  Anybody  been  here  to-day,  Judah?  "  Alan  asked. 

"  No,  Alan.  I  called  tradesmen ;  they  came.  There 
were  young  men  from  the  newspapers." 

"  They  came  here,  did  they  ?  Then  why  did  you  say 
no  one  came?  " 

"  I  did  not  let  them  in." 
•    "  What  did  you  tell  them?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Henry  telephoned  I  was  to  tell  them  nothing." 

"  You  mean  Henry  Spearman?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Do  you  take  orders  from  him,  Judah?" 

"  I  took  that  order,  Alan." 

Alan  hesitated.  "  You've  been  here  in  the  house  all 
day?" 

"  Yes,  Alan." 

Alan  went  back  to  the  first  floor  and  into  the  smaller 
library.  The  room  was  dark  with  the  early  winter 
dusk,  and  he  switched  on  the  light ;  then  he  knelt  and 
pulled  out  one  of  the  drawers  he  "had  seen  Spearman 
searching  through  the  night  before,  and  carefully  ex- 
amined the  papers  in  it  one  by  one,  but  found  them 
only  ordinary  papers.  He  pulled  the  drawer  com- 
pletely out  and  sounded  the  wall  behind  it  and  the  par- 
titions on  both  sides  but  they  appeared  solid.  He  put 
the  drawer  back  in  and  went  on  to  examine  the  next 
one,  and,  after  that,  the  others.  The  clocks  in  the 
house  had  been  wound,  for  presently  the  clock  in  the 
library  struck  six,  and  another  in  the  hall  chimed 
slowly.  An  hour  later,  when  the  clocks  chimed  again, 


VIOLENCE  151 

Alan  looked  up  and  saw  Wassaquam's  small  black  eyes, 
deep  set  in  their  large  eye  sockets,  fixed  on  him  in- 
tently through  the  door.  How  long  the  Indian  had 
been  there,  Alan  could  not  guess ;  he  had  not  heard  his 
step. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for,  Alan  ? "  the  Indian 
asked. 

Alan  reflected  a  moment.  "Mr.  Sherrill  thought 
that  Mr.  Corvet  might  have  left  a  record  of  some  sort 
here  for  me,  Judah.  Do  you  know  of  anything  like 
that?" 

"  No.     That  is  what  you  are  looking  for?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know  of  any  place  where  Mr.  Corvet 
would  have  been  likely  to  pui:  away  anything  like 
that?" 

"  Ben  put  papers  in  all  these  drawers ;  he  put  them 
up-stairs,  too  —  where  you  have  seen." 

"  Nowhere  else,  Judah?  " 

"  If  he  put  things  anywhere  else,  Alan,  I  have  not 
seen.  Dinner  is  served,  Alan." 

Alan  went  to  the  lavatory  on  the  first  floor  and 
washed  the  dust  from  his  hands  and  face ;  then  he  went 
into  the  dining-room.  A  place  had  been  set  at  the 
dining  table  around  the  corner  from  the  place  where, 
as  the  worn  rug  showed,  the  lonely  occupant  of  the 
house  had  been  accustomed  to  sit.  Benjamin  Corvet's 
armchair,  with  its  worn  leather  back,  had  been  left 
against  the  wall :  so  had  another  unworn  armchair 
which  Alan  understood  must  have  been  Mrs.  Corvet's ; 
and  an  armless  chair  had  been  set  for  Alan  between 
their  places.  Wassaquam,  having  served  the  dinner, 
took  his  place  behind  Alan's  chair,  ready  to  pass  him 
what  he  needed ;  but  the  Indian's  silent,  watchful  pres- 


152  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

ence  there  behind  him  where  he  could  not  see  his  face, 
disturbed  Alan,  and  he  twisted  himself  about  to  look  at 
him. 

"  Would  you  mind,  Judah,"  he  inquired,  "  if  I  asked 
you  to  stand  over  there  instead  of  where  you  are?  " 

The 'Indian,  without  answering,  moved  around  to  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  where  he  stood  facing  Alan. 

"You're  a  Chippewa,  aren't  you,  Judah?"  Alan 
asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Your  people  live  at  the  other  end  of  the  lake,  don't 
they?" 

"  Yes,  Alan." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  Indian  Drum  they  talk 
about  up  there,  that  they  say  sounds  when  a  ship  goes 
down  on  the  lake?  " 

The  Indian's  eyes  sparkled  excitedly.  "  Yes,"  he 
said.  . -:  f 

"  Do  you  believe  in  it?  " 

"  Not  just  believe ;  I  know.  That  is  old  Indian  coun- 
try up  there,  Alan  —  L'arbre  Croche  —  Cross  Village 
—  Middle  Village.  A  big  town  of  Ottawas  was  there 
in  old  days;  Pottawatomies  too,  and  Chippewas.  In- 
dians now  are  all  Christians,  Catholics,  and  Methodists 
who  hold  camp  meetings  and  speak  beautifully.  But 
some  things  of  the  old  days  are  left.  The  Drum  is  like 
that.  Everybody  knows  that  it  sounds  for  those  who 
die  on  the  lake." 

"  How  do  they  know,  Judah  ?  How  do  you  yourself 
know?" 

"  I  have  heard  it.     It  sounded  for  my  father." 

"How  was  that?" 

"  Like  this.     My  father  sold  some  bullocks  to  a  man 


VIOLENCE  153 

on  Beaver  Island.  The  man  kept  store  on  Beaver 
Island,  Alan.  No  Indian  liked  him.  He  would  not 
hand  anything  to  an  Indian  or  wrap  anything  in  paper 
for  an  Indian.  Say  it  was  like  this :  An  Indian  comes 
in  to  buy  salt  pork.  First  the  man  would  get  the 
money.  Then,  Alan,  he  would  take  his  hook  and  pull 
the  pork  up  out  of  the  barrel  and  throw  it  on  the  dirty 
floor  for  the  Indian  to  pick  up.  He  said  Indians  must 
take  their  food  off  of  the  floor  —  like  dogs. 

"  My  father  had  to  take  the  bullocks  to  the  man, 
across  to  Beaver  Island.  He  had  a  Mackinaw  boat, 
very  little,  with  a  sail  made  brown  by  boiling  it  with  tan 
bark,  so  that  it  would  not  wear  out.  At  first  the 
Indians  did  not  know  who  the  bullocks  were  for,  so  they 
helped  him.  He  tied  the  legs  of  the  bullocks,  the  front 
legs  and  the  back  legs,  then  all  four  legs  together,  and 
the  Indians  helped  him  put  them  in  the  boat.  When 
they  found  out  the  bullocks  were  for  the  man  on  Beaver 
Island,  the  Indians  would  not  help  him  any  longer.  He 
had  to  take  them  across  alone.  Besides,  it  was  bad 
weather,  the  beginning  of  a  storm. 

"  He  went  away,  and  my  mother  went  to  pick  berries 
—  I  was  small  then.  Pretty  soon  I  saw  my  mother 
coming  back.  She  had  no  berries,  and  her  hair  was 
hanging  down,  and  she  was  wailing.  She  took  me  in 
her  arms  and  said  my  father  was  dead.  Other  Indians 
came  around  and  asked  her  how  she  knew,  and  she  said 
she  had  heard  the  Drum.  The  Indians  went  out  to 
listen." 

"Did  you  go?" 

"Yes;" I  went." 

"  How  old  were  you,  Judah    " 

"  Five  years." 


154  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  That  was  the  time  you  heard  it?  " 

"Yes;  it  would  beat  once,  then  there  would  be  si- 
lence; then  it  would  beat  again.  It  frightened  us  to 
hear  it.  The  Indians  would  scream  and  beat  their 
bodies  with  their  hands  when  the  sound  came.  We 
listened  until  night ;  there  was  a  storm  all  the  time  grow- 
ing greater  in  the  dark,  but  no  rain.  The  Drum  would 
beat  once;  then  nothing;  then  it  would  beat  again  once 
—  never  two  or  more  times.  So  we  knew  it  was  for 
my  father.  It  is  supposed  the  feet  of  the  bullocks  came 
untied,  and  the  bullocks  tipped  the  boat  over.  They 
found  near  the  island  the  body  of  one  of  the  bullocks 
floating  in  the  water,  and  its  feet  were  untied.  My 
father's  body  was  on  the  beach  near  there." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  ship  called  the  Miwaka, 
Judah?" 

"  That  was  long  ago,"  the  Indian  answered. 

"  They  say  that  the  Drum  beat  wrong  when  the 
Mizcaka  went  down  —  that  it  was  one  beat  short  of  the 
right  number." 

"  That  was  long  ago,"  Wassaquam  merely  repeated. 

"  Did  Mr.  Corvct  ever  speak  to  you  about  the 
Mhcaka?  " 

"  No ;  he  asked  me  once  if  I  had  ever  heard  the  Drum. 
I  told  him." 

Wassaquam  removed  the  dinner  and  brought  Alan  a 
dessert.  He  returned  to  stand  in  the  place  across  the 
table  that  Alan  had  assigned  to  him,  and  stood  looking 
down  at  Alan,  steadily  and  thoughtfully. 

"  Do  I  look  like  any  one  you  ever  saw  before, 
Judah?  "  Alan  inquired  of  him. 

"  No." 

"  Is  that  what  you  were  thinking?  " 


VIOLENCE  155 

"  That  is  what  I  was  thinking.  Will  coffee  be  served 
in  the  library,  Alan  ?  " 

Alan  crossed  to  the  library  and  seated  himself  in  the 
chair  where  his  father  had  been  accustomed  to  sit. 
Wassaquam  brought  him  the  single  small  cup  of  coffee, 
lit  the  spirit  lamp  on  the  smoking  stand,  and  moved 
that  over;  then  he  went  away.  When  he  had  finished 
his  coffee,  Alan  went  into  the  smaller  connecting  room 
and  recommenced  his  examination  of  the  drawers  under 
the  bookshelves.  He  could  hear  the  Indian  moving 
about  his  tasks,  and  twice  Wassaquam  came  to  the 
door  of  the  room  and  looked  in  on  him ;  but  he  did  not 
offer  to  say  anything,  and  Alan  did  not  speak  to  him. 
At  ten  o'clock,  Alan  stopped  his  search  and  went  back 
to  the  chair  in  the  library.  He  dozed;  for  he  awoke 
with  a  start  and  a  feeling  that  some  one  had  been 
bending  over  him,  and  gazed  up  into  Wassaquam's  face. 
The  Indian  had  been  scrutinizing  him  with  intent, 
anxious  inquiry.  He  moved  away,  but  Alan  called  him 
back. 

"  When  Mr.  Corvet  disappeared,  Judah,  you  went  to 
look  for  him  up  at  Manistique,  where  he  was  born  — 
at  least  Mr.  Sherrill  said  that  was  where  you  went. 
Why  did  you  think  you  might  find  him  there?"  Alan 
asked. 

"  In  the  end,  I  think,  a  man  maybe  goes  back  to  the 
place  where  he  began.  That's  all,  Alan." 

"  In  the  end!  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Whaf 
do  you  think  has  become  of  Mr.  Corvet  ?  " 

"  I  think  now  —  Ben's  dead." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that?  " 

"  Nothing  makes  me  think ;  I  think  it  myself." 

"  I  see.     You  mean  you  have  no  reason  more  than 


156  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

others  for  thinking  it;  but  that  is  what  you  believe." 

"  Yes."  Wassaquam  went  away,  and  Alan  heard 
him  on  the  back  stairs,  ascending  to  his  room. 

When  Alan  went  up  to  his  own  room,  after  making 
the  rounds  to  see  that  the  house  was  locked,  a  droning 
chant  came  to  him  from  the  third  floor.  He  paused  in 
the  hall  and  listened,  then  went  on  up  to  the  floor 
above.  A  flickering  light  came  to  him  through  the 
half-open  door  of  a  room  at  the  front  of  the  house ;  he 
went  a  little  way  toward  it  and  looked  in.  Two  thick 
candles  were  burning  before  a  crucifix,  below  which  the 
Indian  knelt,  prayer  book  in  hand  and  rocking  to  and 
fro  as  he  droned  his  supplications. 

A  word  or  two  came  to  Alan,  but  without  them 
Wassaquam's  occupation  was  plain ;  he  was  praying  for 
the  repose  of  the  dead  —  the  Catholic  chant  taught  to 
him,  as  it  had  been  taught  undoubtedly  to  his  fathers, 
by  the  French  Jesuits  of  the  lakes.  The  intoned  chant 
for  Corvet's  soul,  by  the  man  who  had  heard  the  Drum, 
followed  and  still  came  to  Alan,  as  he  returned  to  the 
second  floor. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  determine,  during  the  even- 
ing, Wassaquam's  attitude  toward  him.  Having  no  one 
else  to  trust,  Alan  had  been  obliged  to  put  a  certain 
amount  of  trust  in  the  Indian  ;  so  as  he  had  explained  to 
Wassaquam  that  morning  that  the  desk  and  the  drawers 
in  the  little  room  off  Corvet's  had  been  forced,  and  had 
warned  him  to  see  that  no  one,  who  had  not  proper  busi- 
ness there,  entered  the  house.  Wassaquam  had  ap- 
peared to  accept  this  order;  but  now  Wassaquam  had 
implied  that  it  was  not  because  of  Alan's  order  that  he 
had  refused  reporters  admission  to  the  house.  The  de- 
velopments of  the  day  had  tremendously  altered  things 


VIOLENCE  157 

in  one  respect;  for  Alan,  the  night  before,  had  not 
thought  of  the  intruder  into  the  house  as  one  who  could 
claim  an  ordinary  right  of  entrance  there;  but  now  he 
knew  him  to  be  the  one  who  —  except  for  Sherrill  — - 
might  most  naturally  come  to  the  house;  one,  too,  for 
whom  Wassaquam  appeared  to  grant  a  Certain  right 
of  direction  of  affairs  there.  So,  at  this  thought,  Alan 
moved  angrily  ;  the  house  was  his  —  Alan's.  He  had 
noted  particularly,  when  Sherrill  had  showed  him  the 
list  of  properties  whose  transfer  to  him  Corvet  had  left 
at  Sherrill's  discretion,  that  the  house  was  not  among 
them;  and  he  had  understood  that  this  was  because 
Corvet  had  left  Sherrill  no  discretion  as  to  the  house. 
Corvet's  direct,  unconditional  gift  of  the  house  by  deed 
to  Alan  had  been  one  of  Sherrill's  reasons  for  believing 
that  if  Corvet  had  left  anything  which  could  explain 
his  disappearance,  it  would  be  found  in  the  house. 

Unless  Spearman  had  visited  the  house  during  the 
day  and  had  obtained  what  he  had  been  searching  for 
the  night  before  —  and  Alan  believed  he  had  not  done 
that  —  it  was  still  in  the  house.  Alan's  hands 
clenched;  he  would  not  give  Spearman  such  a  chance 
as  that  again ;  and  he  himself  would  continue  his  search 
of  the  house  —  exhaustively,  room  by  room,  article  of 
furniture  by  article  of  furniture. 

Alan  started  and  went  quickly  to  the  open  door  of 
his  room,  as  he  heard  voices  now  somewhere  within  the 
house.  One  of  the  voices  he  recognized  as  Wassa- 
quam's  ;  the  other  indistinct,  thick,  accusing  —  was  un- 
known to  him;  it  certainly  was  not  Spearman's.  He 
had  not  heard  Wassaquam  go  down-stairs,  and  he  had 
not  heard  the  doorbell,  so  he  ran  first  to  the  third  floor; 
but  the  room  where  he  had  seen  Wassaquam  was  empty. 


158  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

He  descended  again  swiftly  to  the  first  floor,  and  found 
Wassaquam  standing  in  the  front  hall,  alone. 

"  Who  was  here,  Judah?  "  Alan  demanded. 

"  A  man,"  the  Indian  answered  stolidly.  "  He  was 
drunk;  I  put  him  out." 

"  What  did  he  come  for?  " 

"  He  came  to  see  Ben.  I  put  him  out ;  he  is  gone, 
Alan." 

Alan  flung  open  the  front  door  and  looked  out,  but 
he  saw  no  one. 

"  What  did  he  want  of  Mr.  Corvet,  Judah?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  told  him  Ben  was  not  here ;  he 
was  angry,  but  he  went  away." 

"  Has  he  ever  come  here  before  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  comes  twice." 

"  He  has  been  here  twice?  " 

"  More  than  that ;  every  year  he  comes  twice,  Alan. 
Once  he  came  oftener." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  doing  that  ?  " 

"  Since  I  can  remember." 

"Is  he  a  friend  of  Mr.  Corvet?" 

"  No  friend  —  no !  " 

"  But  Mr.  Corvet  saw  him  when  he  came  here?  " 

"  Always,  Alan." 

"  And  you  don't  know  at  all  what  he  came  about?  " 

"  How  should  I  know?     No;  I  do  not." 

Alan  got  his  coat  and  hat.  The  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  the  man  might  mean  only  that  he  had  hurried 
away,  but  it  might  mean  too  that  he  was  still  lurking 
near  the  house.  Alan  had  decided  to  make  the  circuit 
of  the  house  and  determine  that.  But  as  he  came  out 
on  to  the  porch,  a  figure  more  than  a  block  away  to  the 
south  strode  with  uncertain  step  out  into  the  light  of  a 


VIOLENCE  159 

street  lamp,  halted  and  faced  about,  and  shook  his  fist 
back  at  the  house.  Alan  dragged  the  Indian  out  on  to 
the  porch. 

"  Is  that  the  man,  Judah?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yes,  Alan." 

Alan  ran  down  the  steps  and  at  full  speed  after  the 
man.  The  other  had  turned  west  at  the  corner  where 
Alan  had  seen  him;  but  even  though  Alan  slipped  as  he 
tried  to  run  upon  the  snowy  walks,  he  must  be  gaining 
fast  upon  him.  He  saw  him  again,  when  he  had  reached 
the  corner  where  the  man  had  turned,  traveling  west- 
ward with  that  quick  uncertain  step  toward  Clark 
Street;  at  that  corner  the  man  turned  south.  But 
when  Alan  reached  the  corner,  he  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
To  the  south,  Clark  Street  reached  away,  garish  with 
electric  signs  and  with  a  half  dozen  saloons  to  every 
block.  That  the  man  was  drunk  made  it  probable  he 
had  turned  into  one  of  these  places.  Alan  went  into 
every  one  of  them  for  fully  a  half  mile  and  looked  about, 
but  he  found  no  one  even  resembling  the  man  he  had 
been  following.  He  retraced  his  steps  for  several 
blocks,  still  looking;  then  he  gave  it  up  and  returned 
eastward  toward  the  Drive. 

The  side  street  leading  to  the  Drive  was  less  well 
lighted;  dark  entry  ways  and  alleys  opened  on  it;  but 
the  night  was  clear.  The  stars,  with  the  shining  sword 
of  Orion  almost  overhead,  gleamed  with  midwinter 
brightness,  and  to  the  west  the  crescent  of  the  moon 
was  hanging  and  throwing  faint  shadows  over  the  snow. 
Alan  could  see  at  the  end  of  the  street,  beyond  the 
yellow  glow  of  the  distant  boulevard  lights,  the  smooth, 
chill  surface  of  the  lake.  A  white  light  rode  above  it ; 
now,  below  the  white  light,  he  saw  a  red  speck  —  the 


160  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

masthead  and  port  lanterns  of  a  steamer  northward 
bound.  Farther  out  a  second  white  glow  appeared 
from  behind  the  obscuration  of  the  buildings  and  below 
it  a  green  speck  —  a  starboard  light.  The  information 
he  had  gained  that  day  enabled  him  to  recognize  in  these 
lights  two  steamers  passing  one  another  at  the  harbor 
mouth. 

"  Red  to  red,"  Alan  murmured  to  himself.  "  Green 
to  green  —  Red  to  red,  perfect  safety,  go  ahead !  "  he 
repeated. 

It  brought  him,  with  marvelous  vividness,  back  to 
Constance  Sherrill.  Events  since  he  had  talked  with 
her  that  morning  had  put  them  far  apart  once  more ; 
but,  in  another  way,  they  were  being  drawn  closer 
together.  For  he  knew  now  that  she  was  caught  as 
well  as  he  in  the  mesh  of  consequences  of  acts  not  their 
own.  Benjamin  Corvet,  in  the  anguish  of  the  last 
hours  before  fear  of  those  consequences  had  driven  him 
away,  had  given  her  a  warning  against  Spearman  so 
wild  that  it  defeated  itself;  for  Alan  merely  to  repeat 
that  warning,  with  no  more  than  he  yet  knew,  would 
be  equally  futile.  But  into  the  contest  between  Spear- 
man and  himself  —  that  contest,  he  was  beginning  to 
feel,  which  must  threaten  destruction  either  to  Spear- 
man or  to  him  —  she  had  entered.  Her  happiness,  her 
future,  were  at  stake ;  her  fate,  he  was  certain  now,  de- 
pended upon  discovery  of  those  events  tied  tight  in  the 
mystery  of  Alan's  own  identity  which  Spearman  knew, 
and  the  threat  of  which  at  moments  appalled  him. 
Alan  winced  as  there  came  before  him  in  the  darkness 
of  the  street  the  vision  of  Constance  in  Spearman's 
arms  and  of  the  kiss  that  he  had  seen  that  afternoon. 

He  staggered,  slipped,  fell  suddenly  forward  upon 


VIOLENCE  161 

his  knees  under  a  stunning,  crushing  blow  upon  his 
head  from  behind.  Thought,  consciousness  almost  lost, 
he  struggled,  twisting  himself  about  to  grasp  at  his 
assailant.  He  caught  the  man's  clothing,  trying  to 
drag  himself  up ;  fighting  blindly,  dazedly,  unable  to  see 
or  think,  he  shouted  aloud  and  then  again,  aloud.  He 
seemed  in  the  distance  to  hear  answering  cries ;  but  the 
weight  and  strength  of  the  other  was  bearing  him  down 
again  to  his  knees ;  he  tried  to  slip  aside  from  it,  to  rise. 
Then  another  blow,  crushing  and  sickening,  descended 
on  his  head ;  even  hearing  left  him  and,  unconscious,  he 
fell  forward  on  to  the  snow  and  lay  still. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   WALK    BESIDE    THE    LAKE 

<  4r  •  ^HE  name  seems  like  Sherrill,"  the  interne 
agreed.  "  He  said  it  before  when  we  had  him 
on  the  table  up-stairs ;  and  he  has  said  it  now 
twice  distinctly  —  Sherrill." 

"  His  name,  do  you  think?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  say  so ;  he  seems  trying  to  speak  to 
some  one  named  Sherrill." 

The  nurse  waited  a  few  minutes.  "  Yes ;  that's  how 
it  seems  to  me,  sir.  He  said  something  that  sounded 
like  '  Connie '  a  while  ago,  and  once  he  said  '  Jim.' 
There  are  only  four  Sherrills  in  the  telephone  book,  two 
of  them  in  Evanston  and  one  way  out  in  Minoota." 

"The  other?" 

"  They're  only  about  six  blocks  from  where  he  was 
picked  up ;  but  they're  on  the  Drive  —  the  Lawrence 
Sherrills." 

The  interne  whistled  softly  and  looked  more  interest- 
edly at  his  patient's  features.  He  glanced  at  his  watch, 
which  showed  the  hour  of  the  morning  to  be  half-past 
four.  "  You'd  better  make  a  note  of  it,"  he  said. 
"  He's  not  a  Chicagoan ;  his  clothes  were  made  some- 
where in  Kansas.  He'll  be  conscious  some  time  during 
the  day;  there's  only  a  slight  fracture,  and —  Per- 
haps you'd  better  call  the  Sherrill  house,  anyway.  If 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  163 

he's  not  known  there,  no  harm  done ;  and  if  he's  one  of 
their  friends  and  he  should  .  .  ." 

The  nurse  nodded  and  moved  off. 

Thus  it  was  that  at  a  quarter  to  five  Constance  Sher- 
rill  was  awakened  by  the  knocking  of  one  of  the  servants 
at  her  father's  door.  Her  father  went  down-stairs  to 
the  telephone  instrument  where  he  might  reply  without 
disturbing  Mrs.  Sherrill.  Constance,  kimona  over  her 
shoulders,  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  waited.  It 
became  plain  to  her  at  once  that  whatever  had  happened 
had  been  to  Alan  Conrad. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  You  are  giving  him  every  pos- 
sible care?  ...  At  once." 

She  ran  part  way  down  the  stairs  and  met  her  father 
as  he  came  up.  He  told  her  of  the  situation  briefly. 

"  He  was  attacked  on  the  street  late  last  night ;  he 
was  unconscious  when  they  found  him  and  took  him 
to  the  hospital,  and  has  been  unconscious  ever  since. 
They  say  it  was  an  ordinary  street  attack  for  robbery. 
I  shall  go  at  once,  of  course;  but  you  can  do  nothing. 
He  would  not  know  you  if  you  came ;  and  of  course  he 
is  in  competent  hands.  No ;  no  one  can  say  yet  how 
seriously  he  is  injured." 

She  waited  in  the  hall  while  her  father  dressed, 
after  calling  the  garage  on  the  house  telephone  for  him 
and  ordering  the  motor.  When  he  had  gone,  she  re- 
turned anxiously  to  her  own  rooms ;  he  had  promised  to 
call  her  after  reaching  the  hospital  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  learned  the  particulars  of  Alan's  cdndition.  It  was 
ridiculous,  of  course,  to  attach  any  responsibility  to  her 
father  or  herself  for  what  had  happened  to  Alan  —  a 
street  attack  such  as  might  have  happened  to  any  one 
—  yet  she  felt  that  they  were  in  part  responsible. 


164*  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Alan  Conrad  had  come  to  Chicago,  not  by  their  direc- 
tion, but  by  Benjamin  Corvet's;  but  Uncle  Benny  being 
gone,  they  had  been  the  ones  who  met  him,  they  had 
received  him  into  their  own  house;  but  they  had  not 
thought  to  warn  him  of  the  dangers  of  the  city  and, 
afterward,  they  had  let  him  go  to  live  alone  in  the 
house  in  Astor  Street  with  no  better  adviser  than 
Wassaquam.  Now,  and  perhaps  because  they  had  not 
warned  him,  he  had  met  injury  and,  it  might  be,  more 
than  mere  injury;  he  might  be  dying. 

She  walked  anxiously  up  and  down  her  room,  clutch- 
ing her  kimona  about  her;  it  would  be  some  time  yet 
before  she  could  hear  from  her  father.  She  went  to  the 
telephone  on  the  stand  beside  her  bed  and  called  Henry 
Spearman  at  his  apartments.  His  servant  answered ; 
and,  after  an  interval,  Henry's  voice  came  to  her.  She 
told  him  all  that  she  knew  of  what  had  occurred. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  over  to  the  hospital?  "  he 
asked  at  once. 

"  No ;  father  has  gone.  There  is  nothing  any  one 
can  do.  I'll  call  you  again  as  soon  as  I  hear  from 
father." 

He  seemed  to  appreciate  from  her  tone  the  anxiety 
she  felt;  for  he  set  himself  to  soothe  and  encourage 
her.  She  listened,  answered,  and  then  hung  up  the 
receiver,  anxious  not  to  interfere  with  the  expected  call 
from  her  father.  She  moved  about  the  room  again, 
oppressed  by  the  long  wait,  until  the  'phone  rang,  and 
she  sprang  to  it ;  it  was  her  father  calling  from  the  hos- 
pital. Alan  had  had  a  few  moments'  consciousness,  but 
Sherrill  had  not  been  allowed  to  see  him;  now,  by  the 
report  of  the  nurse,  Alan  was  sleeping,  and  both  nurse 
and  internes  assured  Sherrill  that,  this  being  the  case, 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  165 

there  was  no  reason  for  anxiety  concerning  him;  but 
Sherrill  would  wait  at  the  hospital  a  little  longer  to 
make  sure.  Constance's  breath  caught  as  she  answered 
him,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  relief.  She  called 
Henry  again,  and  he  evidently  had  been  waiting,  for  he 
answered  at  once ;  he  listened  without  comment  to  her 
repetition  of  her  father's  report. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  when  she  had  finished.  "  I'm 
coming  over,  Connie." 

"Now?" 

"  Yes ;  right  away." 

"  You  must  give  me  time  to  dress !  "  His  assumption 
of  right  to  come  to  her  at  this  early  hour  recalled  to  her 
forcibly  the  closer  relation  which  Henry  now  assumed 
as  existing  between  them ;  indeed,  as  more  than  existing, 
as  progressing.  And  had  not  she  admitted  that  rela- 
tion by  telephoning  to  him  during  her  anxiety?  She 
had  not  thought  how  that  must  appear  to  him ;  she  had 
not  thought  about  it  at  all;  she  had  just  done  it. 

She  had  been  one  of  those  who  think  of  betrothal  in 
terms  of  question  and  answer,  of  a  moment  when  de- 
cision is  formulated  and  spoken ;  she  had  supposed  that, 
by  withholding  reply  to  Henry's  question  put  even 
before  Uncle  Benny  went  away,  she  was  thereby  main- 
taining the  same  relation  between  Henry  and  herself. 
But  now  she  was  discovering  that  this  was  not  so ;  she 
was  realizing  that  Henry  had  not  required  formal 
answer  to  him  because  he  considered  that  such  answer 
had  become  superfluous ;  her  yes,  if  she  accepted  him 
now,  would  not  establish  a  new  bond,  it  would  merely 
acknowledge  what  was  already  understood.  She  had 
accepted  that  —  had  she  not  —  when,  in  the  rush  of 
her  feeling,  she  had  thrust  her  hand  into  his  the  day 


166  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

before ;  she  had  accepted  it,  even  more  undeniably,  when 
he  had  seized  her  and  kissed  her. 

Not  that  she  had  sought  or  even  consciously  per- 
mitted, that ;  it  had,  indeed,  surprised  her.  While  they 
were  alone  together,  and  he  was  telling  her  things  about 
himself,  somewhat  as  he  had  at  the  table  at  Field's, 
Alan  Conrad  was  announced,  and  she  had  risen  to  go. 
Henry  had  tried  to  detain  her ;  then,  as  he  looked  down 
at  her,  hot  impulse  had  seemed  to  conquer  him;  he 
caught  her,  irresistibly ;  amazed,  bewildered,  she  looked 
up  at  him,  and  he  bent  and  kissed  her.  The  power  of 
his  arms  about  her  —  she  could  feel  them  yet,  some- 
times —  half  frightened,  half  enthralled  her.  But  his 
lips  against  her  cheek  —  she  had  turned  her  lips  away 
so  that  his  pressed  her  cheek !  She  had  been  quite  un- 
able to  know  how  she  had  felt  then,  because  at  that 
instant  she  had  realized  that  she  was  seen.  So  she  had 
disengaged  herself  as  quickly  as  possible  and,  after 
Alan  was  gone,  she  had  fled  to  her  room  without  going 
back  to  Henry  at  all. 

How  could  she  have  expected  Henry  to  have  inter- 
preted that  flight  from  him  as  disapproval  when  she  had 
not  meant  it  as  that;  when,  indeed,  she  did  not  know 
herself  what  was  stirring  in  her  that  instinct  to  go  away 
alone?  She  had  not  by  that  disowned  the  new  relation 
which  he  had  accepted  as  established  between  them. 
And  did  she  wish  to  disown  it  now?  What  had  hap- 
pened had  come  sooner  and  with  less  of  her  will  active 
in  it  than  she  had  expected ;  but  she  knew  it  was  only 
what  she  had  expected  to  come.  The  pride  she  had  felt 
in  being  with  him  was,  she  realized,  only  anticipatory 
of  the  pride  she  would  experience  as  his  wife.  When 
she  considered  the  feeling  of  her  family  and  her  friends, 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  167 

she  knew  that,  though  some  would  go  through  the  for- 
mal deploring  that  Henry  had  not  better  birth,  all 
would  be  satisfied  and  more  than  satisfied;  they  would 
even  boast  about  Henry  a  little,  and  entertain  him  in 
her  honor,  and  show  him  off.  There  was  no  one  —  now 
that  poor  Uncle  Benny  was  gone  —  who  would  seri- 
ously deplore  it  at  all. 

Constance  had  recognized  no  relic  of  uneasiness  from 
Uncle  Benny's  last  appeal  to  her ;  she  understood  that 
thoroughly.  Or,  at  least,  she  had  understood  that; 
now  was  there  a  change  in  the  circumstances  of  that 
understanding,  because  of  what  had  happened  to  Alan, 
that  she  found  herself  re-defining  to  herself  her  rela- 
tion with  Henry?  No;  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Henry,  of  course;  it  referred  only  to  Benjamin  Corvet. 
Uncle  Benny  had  "  gone  away "  from  his  house  on 
Astor  Street,  leaving  his  place  there  to  his  son,  Alan 
Conrad.  Something  which  had  disturbed  and  excited 
Alan  had  happened  to  him  on  the  first  night  he  had 
passed  in  that  house;  and  now,  it  appeared,  he  had 
been  prevented  from  passing  a  second  night  there. 
What  had  prevented  him  had  been  an  attempted  rob- 
bery upon  the  street,  her  father  had  said.  But  sup- 
pose it  had  been  something  else  than  robbery. 

She  could  not  formulate  more  definitely  this  thought, 
but  it  persisted ;  she  could  not  deny  it  entirely  and 
shake  it  off. 

To  Alan  Conrad,  in  the  late  afternoon  of  that  day, 
this  same  thought  was  coming  far  more  definitely  and 
far  more  persistently.  He  had  been  awake  and  sane 
since  shortly  after  noonday.  The  pain  of  a  head  which 
ached  throbbingly  and  of  a  body  bruised  and  sore  was 
beginning  to  give  place  to  a  feeling  merely  of  lassitude 


168  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

—  a  languor  which  revisited  incoherence  upon  him  when 
he  tried  to  think.  He  shifted  himself  upon  his  bed  and 
called  the  nurse. 

"  How  long  am  I  likely  to  have  to  stay  here?  "  he 
asked  her. 

"  The  doctors  think  not  less  than  two  weeks,  Mr.  Con- 
rad." 

He  realized,  as  he  again  lay  silent,  that  he  must  put 
out  of  his  head  now  all  expectation  of  ever  finding  in 
Corvet's  house  any  such  record  as  he  had  been  looking 
for.  If  there  had  been  a  record,  it  unquestionably 
would  be  gone  before  he  could  get  about  again  to  seek 
it ;  and  he  could  not  guard  against  its  being  taken  from 
the  house ;  for,  if  he  had  been  hopeless  of  receiving 
credence  for  any  accusation  he  might  make  against 
Spearman  while  he  was  in  health,  how  much  more  hope- 
less was  it  now,  when  everything  he  would  say  could  be 
put  to  the  credit  of  his  injury  and  to  his  delirium !  He 
could  not  even  give  orders  for  the  safeguarding  of  the 
house  and  its  contents  —  his  own  property  —  with 
assurance  that  they  would  be  carried  out. 

The  police  and  hospital  attendants,  he  had  learned, 
had  no  suspicion  of  anything  but  that  he  had  been  the 
victim  of  one  of  the  footpads  who,  during  that  month, 
had  been  attacking  and  robbing  nightly.  Sherrill, 
who  had  visited  him  about  two  o'clock,  had  showed  that 
he  suspected  no  other  possibility.  Alan  could  not 
prove  otherwise ;  he  had  not  seen  his  assailant's  face ; 
it  was  most  probable  that  if  he  had  seen  it,  he  would 
not  have  recognized  it.  But  the  man  who  had  assailed 
him  had  meant  to  kill ;  he  had  not  been  any  ordinary 
robber.  That  purpose,  blindly  recognized  and  fought 
against  by  Alan  in  their  struggle,  had  been  unmistak- 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  169 

able.  Only  the  chance  presence  of  passers-by,  who  had 
heard  Alan's  shouts  and  responded  to  them,  had  pre- 
vented the  execution  of  his  purpose,  and  had  driven  the 
man  to  swift  flight  for  his  own  safety. 

Alan  had  believed,  in  his  struggle  with  Spearman  in 
Corvet's  library,  that  Spearman  might  have  killed 
rather  than  have  been  discovered  there.  Were  there 
others  to  whom  Alan's  presence  had  become  a  threat  so 
serious  that  <they  would  proceed  even  to  the  length  of 
calculated  murder?  He  could  not  know  that.  The 
only  safe  plan  was  to  assume  that  persons,  in  number 
unknown,  had  definite,  vital  interest  in  his  "  removal  " 
by  violence  or  otherwise,  and  that,  among  them,  he 
must  reckon  Henry  Spearman ;  and  he  must  fight  them 
alone.  For  Sherrill's  liking  for  him,  even  Constance 
Sherrill's  interest  and  sympathy  were  nullified  in  prac- 
tical intent  by  their  admiration  for  and  their  complete 
confidence  in  Spearman.  It  did  not  matter  that  Alan 
might  believe  that,  in  fighting  Spearman,  he  was  fight- 
ing not  only  for  himself  but  for  her ;  he  knew  now  cer- 
tainly that  he  must  count  her  as  Spearman's ;  her ! 
Things  swam  before  him  again  dizzily  as  he  thought  of 
her ;  and  he  sank  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

A  little  before  six  Constance  Shcrrill  and  Spearman 
called  to  inquire  after  him  and  were  admitted  for  a  few 
moments  to  his  room.  She  came  to  him,  bent  over  him, 
while  she  spoke  the  few  words  of  sympathy  the  nurse 
allowed  to  her;  she  stood  back  then  while  Spearman 
spoke  to  him.  In  the  succeeding  days,  he  saw  her 
nearly  every  day,  accompanied  always  by  her  father -or 
Spearman;  it  was  the  full  two  weeks  the  nurse  had 
allotted  for  his  remaining  in  the  hospital  before  he  saw 
her  alone. 


170  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

They  had  brought  him  home,  the  day  before  —  she 
and  her  father,  in  the  motor  —  to  the  house  on  Astor 
Street.  He  had  insisted  on  returning  there,  refusing 
the  room  in  their  house  which  they  had  offered ;  but  the 
doctor  had  enjoined  outdoors  and  moderate  exercise 
for  him,  and  she  had  made  him  promise  to  come  and 
walk  with  her.  He  went  to  the  Sherrill  house  about 
ten  o'clock,  and  they  walked  northward  toward  the 
park. 

It  was  a  mild,  sunny  morning  with  warm  wind  from 
the  south,  which  sucked  up  the  last  patches  of  snow 
from  the  lawns  and  dried  the  tiny  trickles  of  water 
across  the  walks.  Looking  to  the  land,  one  might  sa^ 
that  spring  soon  would  be  on  the  way ;  but,  looking  to 
the  lake,  midwinter  held.  The  counterscrap  of  con- 
crete, beyond  the  withered  sod  that  edged  the  Drive, 
was  sheathed  in  ice ;  the  frozen  spray-hummocks  beyond 
steamed  in  the  sun ;  and  out  as  far  as  one  could  see,  floes 
floated  close  together,  exposing  only  here  and  there  a 
bit  of  blue.  Wind,  cold  and  chilling,  wafted  off  this 
ice  field,  taking  the  warm  south  breeze  upon  its  flanks. 

Glancing  up  at  her  companion  from  time  to  time. 
Constance  saw  the  color  coming  to  his  face,  and  he 
strode  beside  her  quite  steadily.  Whatever  was  his 
inheritance,  his  certainly  were  stamina  and  vitality ;  a 
little  less  —  or  a  little  dissipation  of  them  —  and  he 
might  not  have  recovered  at  all,  much  less  have  leaped 
back  to  strength  as  he  had  done.  For  since  yesterday, 
the  languor  which  had  held  him  was  gone. 

They  halted  a  minute  near  the  south  entrance  of  the 
park  at  the  St.  Gaudens'  "  Lincoln,"  which  he  had  not 
previously  seen.  The  gaunt,  sad  figure  of  the  "  rail- 
splitter  "  in  his  ill-fitting  clothes,  seemed  to  recall  some- 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  171 

thing  to  him;  for  he  glanced  swiftly  at  her  as  they 
turned  away. 

"  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  asked,  "  have  you  ever  stayed  out 
in  the  country?  " 

"  I  go  to  northern  Michigan,  up  by  the  straits, 
almost  every  summer  for  part  of  the  time,  at  least ;  and 
once  in  a  while  we  open  the  house  in  winter  too  for  a 
week  or  so.  It's  quite  wild  —  trees  and  sand  and  shore 
and  the  water.  I've  had  some  of  my  best  times,  up 
there." 

"You've  never  been  out  on  the  plains?" 

"  Just  to  pass  over  them  on  the  train  on  the  way  to 
the  coast." 

"  That  would  be  in  winter  or  in  spring ;  I  was  think- 
ing about  the  plains  in  late  summer,  when  we  —  Jim 
and  Betty,  the  children  of  the  people  I  was  with  in 
Kansas  — " 

"  I  remember  them." 

"  When  we  used  to  play  at  being  pioneers  in  our 
sunflower  shacks." 

"Sunflower  shacks?"  she  questioned. 

"  I  was  dreaming  we  were  building  them  again  when 
I  was  delirious  just  after  I  was  hurt,  it  seems.  I 
thought  that  I  was  back  in  Kansas  and  was  little  again. 
The  prairie  was  all  brown  as  it  is  in  late  summer, 
brown  billows  of  dried  grass  which  let  you  see  the  chips 
of  limestone  and  flint  scattered  on  the  ground  beneath ; 
and  in  the  hollows  there  were  acres  and  acres  of  sun- 
flowers, three  times  as  tall  as  either  Jim  or  I,  and  with 
stalks  as  thick  as  a  man's  wrist,  where  Jim  and  Betty 
and  I  ...  and  you,  Miss  Sherrill,  were  playing." 

"  I?  " 

"We  cut  paths  through  the  sunflowers  with  a  corn 


172  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

knife,"  Alan  continued,  not  looking  at  her,  "  and  built 
houses  in  them  by  twining  the  cut  stalks  in  and  out 
among  those  still  standing.  I'd  wondered,  you  see, 
what  you  must  have  been  like  when  you  were  a  little 
girl,  so,  I  suppose,  when  I  was  delirious,  I  saw  you 
that  way." 

She  had  looked  up  at  him  a  little  apprehensively, 
afraid  that  he  was  going  to  say  something  more;  but 
his  look  reassured  her. 

"  Then  that,"  she  hazarded,  "  must  have  been  how 
the  hospital  people  learned  our  name.  I'd  wondered 
about  that;  they  said  you  were  unconscious  first,  and 
then  delirious  and  when  you  spoke  you  said,  among 
other  names,  mine  —  Connie  and  Sherrill." 

He  colored  and  glanced  away.  "  I  thought  they 
might  have  told  you  that,  so  I  wanted  you  to  know. 
They  say  that  in  a  dream,  or  in  delirium,  after  your 
brain  establishes  the  first  absurdity  —  like  your  play- 
ing out  among  the  sunflowers  with  me  when  we  were 
little  —  everything  else  is  consistent.  I  wouldn't  call 
a  little  girl  '  Miss  Sherrill,'  of  course.  Ever  since  I've 
known  you,  I  couldn't  help  thinking  a  great  deal  about 
you ;  you're  not  like  any  one  else  I've  ever  known.  But 
I  didn't  want  you  to  think  I  thought  of  you  — 
familiarly." 

"  I  speak  of  you  always  as  Alan  to  father,"  she 
said. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  They  lasted  hardly 
for  a  day  —  those  sunflower  houses,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  They  withered  almost  as  soon  as  they 
were  made.  Castles  in  Kansas,  one  might  say!  No 
one  could  live  in  them." 

Apprehensive  again,  she  colored.     He  had  recalled 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  173 

to  her,  without  meaning  to  do  so,  she  thought,  that  fie 
had  seen  her  in  Spearman's  arms;  she  was  quite  sure 
that  recollection  of  this  was  in  his  mind.  But  in  spite 
of  this  —  or  rather,  exactly  because  of  it  —  she  under- 
stood that  he  had  formed  his  own  impression  of  the 
relation  between  Henry  and  herself  and  that,  conse- 
quently, he  was  not  likely  to  say  anything  more  like 
this. 

They  had  walked  east,  across  the  damp,  dead  turf 
to  where  the  Drive  leaves  the  shore  and  is  built  out  into 
the  lake;  as  they  crossed  to  it  on  the  smooth  ice  of 
the  lagoon  between,  he  took  her  arm  to  steady  her. 

"  There  is  somethirg  I  have  been  wanting  to  ask 
you,"  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  That  night  when  you  were  hurt  —  it  was  for  rob- 
bery, they  said.  What  do  you  think  about  it?"  She 
watched  him  as  he  looked  at  her  and  then  away ;  but  his 
face  was  completely  expressionless. 

"  The  proceedings  were  a  little  too  rapid  for  me  to 
judge,  Miss  Sherrill." 

"  But  there  was  no  demand  upon  you  to  give  over 
your  money  before  you  were  attacked?  " 

"No." 

She  breathed  a  little  more  quickly.  "  It  must  be  a 
strange  sensation,"  she  observed,  "  to  know  that  some 
one  has  tried  to  kill  you." 

"  It  must,  indeed." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  think  that  he  tried  to  kill 
you?" 

"  The  police  captain  thinks  not ;  he  says  it  was  the 
work  of  a  man  new  to  the  blackjack,  and  he  hit  harder 
and  oftener  than  he  needed.  He  says  that  sort  are  the 


174  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

dangerous  ones  —  that  one's  quite  safe  in  the  hands  of 
an  experienced  slugger,  as  you  would  be  with  the  skil- 
ful man  in  any  line.  I  never  thought  of  it  that  way 
before.  He  almost  made  it  into  an  argument  for  leav- 
ing the  trained  artists  loose  on  the  streets,  for  the 
safety  of  the  public,  instead  of  turning  the  business  over 
to  boys  only  half  educated." 

"  What  do  you  think  about  the  man  yourself?  "  Con- 
stance persisted. 

"  The  apprentice  who  practiced  on  me?  " 

She  waited,  watching  his  eyes.  "  I  was  hardly  in  a 
condition,  Miss  Sherrill,  to  appreciate  anything  about 
the  man  at  all.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because  — "  She  hesitated  an  instant,  "  if  you- 
were  attacked  to  be  killed,  it  meant  that  you  must  have 
been  attacked  as  the  son  of  —  Mr.  Corvet.  Then  that 
meant  —  at  least  it  implied,  that  Mr.  Corvet  was  killed, 
that  he  did  not  go  away.  You  see  that,  of  course." 

"  Were  you  the  only  one  who  thought  that  ?  Or  did 
some  one  speak  to  you  about  it?  " 

"  No  one  did ;  I  spoke  to  father.     He  thought  — " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  if  Mr.  Corvet  was  murdered  —  I'm  following 
what  father  thought,  you  understand  —  it  involved 
something  a  good  deal  worse  perhaps  than  anything 
that  could  have  been  involved  if  he  had  only  gone  away. 
The  facts  we  had  made  it  certain  that  —  if  what  had 
happened  to  him  was  death  at  the  hands  of  another  — 
he  must  have  foreseen  that  death  and,  seeking  no  pro- 
tection for  himself  ...  it  implied,  that  he  preferred 
to  die  rather  than  to  ask  protection  —  that  there  was 
something  whose  concealment  he  thought  mattered  even 
more  to  him  than  life.  It  —  it  might  have  meant  that 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  175 

he  considered  his  life  was  .  .  .  due  to  whomever  took 
it."  Her  voice,  which  had  become  very  low,  now  ceased. 
She  was  speaking  to  Alan  of  his  father  —  a  father 
whom  he  had  never  known,  and  whom  he  could  not  have 
recognized  by  sight  until  she  showed  him  the  picture  a 
few  weeks  before ;  but  she  was  speaking  of  his  father. 

"  Mr.  Sherrill  didn't  feel  that  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  do  anything,  even  though  he  thought  that?" 

"  If  Mr.  Corvet  was  dead,  we  could  do  him  no  good, 
surely,  by  telling  this  to  the  police;  if  the  police  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  out  all  the  facts,  we  would  be  doing 
only  what  Uncle  Benny  did  not  wish  —  what  he  pre- 
ferred death  to.  We  could  not  tell  the  police  about  it 
without  telling  them  all  about  Mr.  Corvet  too.  So 
father  would  not  let  himself  believe  that  you  had  been 
attacked  to  be  killed.  He  had  to  believe  the  police 
theory  was  sufficient." 

Alan  made  no  comment  at  once.  "  Wassaquam  be- 
lieves Mr.  Corvet  is  dead,"  he  said  finally.  "  He  told 
me  so.  Does  your  father  believe  that?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  beginning  to  believe  it." 

They  had  reached  the  little  bridge  that  breaks  the 
Drive  and  spans  the  channel  through  which  the  motor 
boats  reach  harbor  in  the  lagoon ;  he  rested  his  arms 
upon  the  rail  of  the  bridge  and  looked  down  into  the 
channel,  now  frozen.  He  seemed  to  her  to  consider 
and  to  decide  upon  something. 

"  I've  not  told  any  one,"  he  said,  now  watching  her, 
"  how  I  happened  to  be  out  of  the  house  that  night.  I 
followed  a  man  who  came  there  to  the  house.  Wassa- 
quam did  not  know  his  name.  He  did  not  know  Mr. 
Corvet  was  gone ;  for  he  came  there  to  see  Mr.  Corvet. 
He  was  not  an  ordinary  friend  of  Mr.  Corvet's ;  but  he 


176  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

had  come  there  often;  Wassaquam  did  not  know  why. 
Wassaquam  had  sent  the  man  away,  and  I  ran  out  after 
him ;  but  I  could  not  find  him." 

He  stopped  an  instant,  studying  her.  "  That  was 
not  the  first  man  who  came  to  the  house,"  he  went  on 
quickly,  as  she  was  about  to  speak.  "  I  found  a  man 
in  Mr.  Corvet's  house  the  first  night  that  I  spent  there. 
Wassaquam  was  away,  you  remember,  and  I  was  alone 
in  the  house." 

"  A  man  there  in  the  house?  "  she  repeated. 

"  He  wasn't  there  when  I  entered  the  house  —  at 
least  I  don't  think  he  was.  I  heard  him  below,  after 
I  had  gone  up-stairs.  I  came  down  then  and  saw  him. 
He  was  going  through  Mr.  Corvet's  things  —  not  the 
silver  and  all  that,  but  through  his  desks  and  files  and 
cases.  He  was  looking  for  something  —  something 
which  he  seemed  to  want  very  much ;  when  I  interfered, 
it  greatly  excited  him." 

They  had  turned  back  from  the  bridge  and  were  re- 
turning along  the  way  that  they  had  come ;  but  now 
she  stopped  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  What  happened  when  you  '  interfered  '?  " 

"  A  queer  thing." 

"What?" 

"  I  frightened  him." 

"  Frightened  him  ? "  She  had  appreciated  in  his 
tone  more  significance  than  the  casual  meaning  of  the 
words. 

"  He  thought  I  was  a  ghost." 

"  A  ghost.     Whose  ghost  ?  " 

He  shrugged.  "  I  don't  know ;  some  one  whom  he 
seemed  to  have  known  pretty  well  —  and  whom  Mr. 
Corvet  knew,  he  thought." 


A  WALK  BESIDE  THE  LAKE  1TT 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  us  this  before?  " 

"  At  least  —  I  am  telling  you  now,  Miss  Sherrill. 
I  frightened  him,  and  he  got  away.  But  I  had  seen  him 
plainly.  I  can  describe  him.  .  .  .  You've  talked  with 
your  father  of  the  possibility  that  something  might 
*  happen '  to  me  such  as,  perhaps,  happened  to  Mr. 
Corvet.  If  anything  does  happen  to  me,  a  description 
of  the  man  may  .  .  .  prove  useful." 

He  saw  the  color  leave  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
brighten ;  he  accepted  this  for  agreement  on  her  part. 
Then  clearly  and  definitely  as  he  could,  he  described 
Spearman  to  her.  She  did  not  recognize  the  descrip- 
tion ;  he  had  known  she  would  not.  Had  not  Spearman 
been  in  Duluth?  Beyond  that,  was  not  connection  of 
Spearman  with  the  prowler  in  Corvet's  house  the  one 
connection  of  all  most  difficult  for  her  to  make?  But 
he  saw  her  fixing  and  recording  the  description  in  her 
mind. 

They  were  silent  as  they  went  on  toward  her  home. 
He  had  said  all  he  could,  or  dared  to  say;  to  tell  her 
that  the  man  had  been  Spearman  would  not  merely  have 
awakened  her  incredulity;  it  would  have  destroyed 
credence  utterly.  A  definite  change  in  their  relation  to 
one  another  had  taken  place  during  their  walk.  The 
fullness,  the  frankness  of  the  sympathy  there  had  been 
between  them  almost  from  their  first  meeting,  had  gone ; 
she  was  quite  aware,  he  saw,  that  he  had  not  frankly 
answered  her  questions ;  she  was  aware  that  in  some 
way  he  had  drawn  back  from  her  and  shut  her  out  from 
his  thoughts  about  his  own  position  here.  But  he  had 
known  that  this  must  be  so ;  it  had  been  his  first  definite 
realization  after  his  return  to  consciousness  in  the  hos- 
pital when,  knowing  now  her  relation  to  Spearman,  he 


178  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

had  found  all  questions  which  concerned  his  relations 
with  the  people  here  made  immeasurably  more  acute  by 
the  attack  upon  him. 

She  asked  him  to  come  in  and  stay  for  luncheon,  as 
they  reached  her  home,  but  she  asked  it  without  urging ; 
at  his  refusal  she  moved  slowly  up  the  steps ;  but  she 
halted  when  she  saw  that  he  did  not  go  on. 

"  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  hcr,%  "  how 
much  money  is  there  in  your  house?  " 

She  smiled,  amused  and  a  little  perplexed;  then 
sobered  as  she  saw  his  intentness  on  her  answer. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  mean  —  how  much  is  ordinarily  kept  there?  " 

"  Why,  very  little  in  actual  cash.  We  pay  every- 
thing by  check  —  tradesmen  and  servants ;  and  even  if 
we  happen  not  to  have  a  charge  account  where  we  make 
a  purchase,  they  know  who  we  are  and  are  always  will- 
ing to  charge  it  to  us." 

"  Thank  you.  It  would  be  rather  unusual  then  for 
you  —  or  your  neighbors  —  to  have  currency  at  hand 
exceeding  the  hundreds  ?  " 

"  Exceeding  the  hundreds  ?  That  means  in  the  thou- 
sands —  or  at  least  one  thousand ;  yes,  for  us,  it  would 
be  quite  unusual." 

She  waited  for  him  to  explain  why  he  had  asked;  it 
was  not,  she  felt  sure,  for  any  reason  which  could  read- 
ily suggest  itself  to  her.  But  he  only  thanked  her  again 
and  lifted  his  hat  and  moved  away.  Looking  after  him 
from  the  window  after  she  had  entered  the  house,  she 
saw  him  turn  the  corner  in  the  direction  of  Astor 
Street. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    CALLER 

AS  the  first  of  the  month  was  approaching, 
Wassaquam  had  brought  his  household  bills  and 
budget  to  Alan  that  morning  directly  after 
breakfast.  The  accounts,  which  covered  expenses  for 
the  month  just  ending  and  a  small  amount  of  cash  to 
be  carried  for  the  month  beginning,  were  written  upon 
a  sheet  of  foolscap  in  neat,  unshaded  writing  exactly 
like  the  models  in  a  copybook  —  each  letter  formed  as 
carefully  and  precisely  as  is  the  work  done  upon  an 
Indian  basket.  The  statement  accounted  accurately 
for  a  sum  of  cash  in  hand  upon  the  first  of  February, 
itemized  charged  expenses,  and  totaled  the  bills.  For 
March,  Wassaquam  evidently  proposed  a  continuance 
of  the  establishment  upon  the  present  lines.  To  pro- 
vide for  that,  and  to  furnish  Alan  with  whatever  sums 
he  needed,  Sherrill  had  made  a  considerable  deposit  in 
Alan's  name  in  the  bank  where  he  carried  his  own  ac- 
count; and  Alan  had  accompanied  Sherrill  to  the  bank 
to  be  introduced  and  had  signed  the  necessary  cards 
in  order  to  check  against  the  deposit;  but,  as  yet,  he 
had  drawn  nothing. 

Alan  had  required  barely  half  of  the  hundred  dollars 
which  Benjamin  Corvet  had  sent  to  Blue  Rapids,  for 
his  expenses  in  Chicago;  and  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  "  home  "  a  hundred  dollars  of  his  own.  He  had 


180  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

used  that  for  his  personal  expenses  since.  The  amount 
which  Wassaquam  now  desired  to  pay  the  bills  was 
much  more  than  Alan  had  on  hand;  but  that  amount 
was  also  much  less  than  the  eleven  hundred  dollars 
which  the  servant  listed  as  cash  on  hand.  This,  Was- 
saquam stated,  was  in  currency  and  kept  by  him.  Ben- 
jamin always  had  had  him  keep  that  much  in  the  house; 
Wassaquam  would  not  touch  that  sum  now  for  the 
payment  of  current  expenses. 

This  sum  of  money  kept  inviolate  troubled  Alan. 
Constance  Sherrill's  statement  that,  for  her  family  at 
least,  to  keep  such  a  sum  would  have  been  unusual, 
increased  this  trouble;  it  did  not,  however,  preclude 
the  possibility  that  others  than  the  Sherrills  might 
keep  such  amounts  of  cash  on  hand.  On  the  first  of 
the  month,  therefore  Alan  drew  upon  his  new  bank 
account  to  Wassaquam's  order ;  and  in  the  early  after- 
noon Wassaquam  went  to  the  bank  to  cash  his  check 
—  one  of  the  very  few  occasions  when  Alan  had  been 
left  in  the  house  alone ;  Wassaquam's  habit,  it  appeared, 
was  to  go  about  on  the  first  of  the  month  and  pay 
the  tradesmen  in  person. 

Some  two  hours  later,  and  before  Wassaquam  could 
have  been  expected  back,  Alan,  in  the  room  which  had 
become  his,  was  startled  by  a  sound  of  heavy  pound- 
ing, which  came  suddenly  to  him  from  a  floor  below. 
Shouts  —  heavy,  thick,  and  unintelligible  —  mingled 
with  the  pounding.  He  ran  swiftly  down  the  stairs, 
then  on  and  down  the  service  stairs  into  the  basement. 
The  door  to  the  house  from  the  areaway  was  shaking 
to  irregular,  heavy  blows,  which  stopped  as  Alan 
reached  the  lower  hallway ;  the  shouts  continued  still  a 
moment  more.  Now  that  the  noise  of  pounding  did  not 


A  CALLER  181 

interfere,  Alan  could  make  out  what  the  man  was  say- 
ing :  "  Ben  Corvet !  " —  the  name  was  almost  unintelli- 
gible—"Ben  Corvet!  Ben!"  Then  the  shouts 
stopped  too. 

Alan  sped  to  the  door  and  turned  back  the  latch. 
The  door  bore  back  upon  him,  not  from  a  push,  but 
from  a  weight  without  which  had  fallen  against  it.  A 
big,  heavy  man,  with  a  rough  cap  and  mackinaw  coat, 
would  have  fallen  upon  the  floor,  if  Alan  had  not 
caught  him.  His  weight  in  Alan's  arms  was  so  dull,  so 
inert  that,  if  violence  had  been  his  intention,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  feared  from  him  now.  Alan  looked  up, 
therefore,  to  see  if  any  one  had  come  with  him.  The 
alley  and  the  street  were  clear.  The  snow  in  the  area- 
way  showed  that  the  man  had  come  to  the  door  alone 
and  with  great  difficulty;  he  had  fallen  once  upon  the 
walk.  Alan  dragged  the  man  into  the  house  and  went 
back  and  closed  the  door. 

/He  returned  and  looked  at  him.  The  man  was  like, 
very  like  the  one  whom  Alan  had  followed  from  the 
house  on  the  night  when  he  was  attacked;  certainty 
that  this  was  the  same  man  came  quickly  to  him.  He 
seized  the  fellow  again  and  dragged  him  up  the  stairs 
and  to  the  lounge  in  the  library.  The  warmth  revived 
him;  he  sat  up,  coughing  and  breathing  quickly  and 
with  a  loud,  rasping  wheeze.  The  smell  of  liquor  was 
strong  upon  him ;  his  clothes  reeked  with  the  unclean 
smell  of  barrel  houses. 

He  was,  or  had  been,  a  very  powerful  man,  broad  and 
thick  through  with  overdeveloped  —  almost  distorting 
—  muscles  in  his  shoulders  ;  but  his  body  had  become  fat 
and  soft,  his  face  was  puffed,  and  his  eyes  watery  and 
bright ;  his  brown  hair,  which  was  shot  all  through 


182  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

with  gray,  was  dirty  and  matted ;  he  had  three  or  four 
days'  growth  of  beard.  He  was  clothed  as  Alan  had 
seen  deck  hands  on  the  steamers  attired ;  he  was  not  Jess 
than  fifty,  Alan  judged,  though  his  condition  made  es- 
timate difficult.  When  he  sat  up  and  looked  about,  it 
was  plain  that  whiskey  was  only  one  of  the  forces 
working  upon  him  —  the  other  was  fever  which  burned 
up  and  sustained  him  intermittently. 

"  'Lo !  "  he  greeted  Alan.  "  Where's  shat  damn  In- 
jin,  hey?  I  knew  Ben  Corvet  was  shere  —  knew  he 
was  shere  all  time.  'Course  he's  shere;  he  got  to  be 
shere.  That's  shright.  You  go  get  'im !  " 

"  Who  are  you?  "  Alan  asked. 

"Say,  who'r  you?  What  t'hells  syou  doin'  here? 
Never  see  you  before  .  .  .  go  —  go  get  Ben  Corvet. 
Jus'  say  Ben  Corvet,  Lu  • — luke's  shere.  Ben  Corvet'll 
know  Lu  —  luke  all  right;  alwaysh,  alwaysh  knows 
me.  .  .  ." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Alan  had  drawn 
back  but  now  went  to  the  man  again.  The  first  idea 
that  this  might  have  been  merely  some  old  sailor  who 
had  served  Benjamin  Corvet  or,  perhaps,  had  been  a 
comrade  in  the  earlier  days,  had  been  banished  by  the 
confident  arrogance  of  the  man's  tone  —  an  arrogance 
not  to  be  explained,  entirely,  by  whiskey  or  by  the  fever. 

"How  long  have  you  been  this  way?"  Alan  de- 
manded. "Where  did  you  come  from?"  He  put  his 
hand  on  the  wrist ;  it  was  very  hot  and  dry ;  the  pulse 
was  racing,  irregular ;  at  seconds  it  seemed  to  stop ; 
for  other  seconds  it  was  continuous.  The  fellow 
coughed  and  bent  forward.  "What  is  it  —  pneumo- 
nia?" Alan  tried  to  straighten  him  up. 

"  Gi'  me  drink !  ...  Go  get  Ben  Corvet,  I  tell  you ! 


A  CALLER  183 

.  .  .  Get  Ben  Corvet  quick!  Say  —  yous  shear? 
You  get  me  Ben  Corvet ;  you  better  get  Ben  Corvet ; 
you  tell  him  Lu  —  uke's  here ;  won't  wait  any  more ; 
goin'  t'have  my  money  now  .  .  .  sright  away,  your 
shear?  Kick  me  out  s'loon ;  I  guess  not  no  more.  Ben 
Corvet  give  me  all  money  I  want  or  I  talk ! " 

"Talk!" 

"  Syou  know  it !  I  ain't  goin'.  .  .  ."  He  choked 
up  and  tottered  back ;  Alan,  supporting  him,  laid  him 
down  and  stayed  beside  him  until  his  coughing  and 
choking  ceased,  and  there  was  only  the  rattling  rasp 
of  his  breathing.  When  Alan  spoke  to  him  again, 
Luke's  eyes  opened,  and  he  narrated  recent  experiences 
bitterly ;  all  were  blamed  to  Ben  Corvet's  absence ; 
Luke,  who  had  been  drinking  heavily  a  few  nights  be- 
fore, had  been  thrown  out  when  the  saloon  was  closed; 
that  was  Ben  Corvet's  fault ;  if  Ben  Corvet  had  been 
around,  Luke  would  have  had  money,  all  the  money 
any  one  wanted ;  no  one  would  have  thrown  out  Luke 
then.  Luke  slept  in  the  snow,  all  wet.  When  he  arose, 
the  saloon  was  open  again,  and  he  got  more  whis- 
key, but  not  enough  to  get  him  warm.  He  hadn't  been 
warm  since.  That  waj»  Ben  Corvet's  fault.  Ben  Cor- 
vet better  be  'round  now;  Luke  wouldn't  stand  any 
more. 

Alan  felt  of  the  pulse  again ;  he  opened  the  coat  and 
under-flannels  and  felt  the  heaving  chest.  He  went  to 
the  hall  and  looked  in  the  telephone  directory.  He 
remembered  the  name  of  the  druggist  on  the  corner  of 
Clark  Street  and  he  telephoned  him,  giving  the  number 
on  Astor  Street. 

"  I  want  a  doctor  right  away,"  he  said.  "  Any  good 
doctor;  the  one  that  you  can  get  quickest."  The 


184  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

druggist  promised  that  a  physician  would  be  there 
within  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Alan  went  back  to  Luke, 
who  was  silent  now  except  for  the  gasp  of  his  breath; 
he  did  not  answer  when  Alan  spoke  to  him,  except  to 
ask  for  whiskey.  Alan,  gazing  down  at  him,  felt  that 
the  man  was  dying;  liquor  and  his  fever  had  sustained 
him  only  to  bring  him  to  the  door;  now  the  collapse 
had  come;  the  doctor,  even  if  he  arrived  very  soon, 
could  do  no  more  than  perhaps  delay  the  end.  Alan 
went  up-stairs  and  brought  down  blankets  and  put 
them  over  Luke ;  he  cut  the  knotted  laces  of  the  soaked 
shoes  and  pulled  them  off;  he  also  took  off  the  macki- 
naw  and  the  undercoat.  The  fellow,  appreciating  that 
care  was  being  given  him,  relaxed ;  he  slept  deeply  for 
short  periods,  stirred  and  started  up,  then  slept  again. 
Alan  stood  watching,  a  strange,  sinking  tremor  shak- 
ing him.  This  man  had  come  there  to  make  a  claim 
—  a  claim  which  many  times  before,  apparently,  Ben- 
jamin Corvet  had  admitted.  Luke  came  to  Ben  Corvet 
for  money  which  he  always  got  —  all  he  wanted  — 
the  alternative  to  giving  which  was  that  Luke  would 
"talk."  Blackmail,  that  meant,  of  course;  blackmail 
which  not  only  Luke  had  told  of,  but  which  Wassaquam 
too  had  admitted,  as  Alan  now  realized.  Money  for 
blackmail  —  that  was  the  reason  for  that  thousand 
dollars  in  cash  which  Benjamin  Corvet  always  kept  at 
the  house. 

Alan  turned,  with  a  sudden  shiver  of  revulsion,  to- 
ward his  father's  chair  in  place  before  the  hearth; 
there  for  hours  each  day  his  father  had  sat  with  a  book 
or  staring  into  the  fire,  always  with  what  this  man 
knew  hanging  over  him,  always  arming  against  it  with 
the  thousand  dollars  ready  for  this  man,  whenever  he 


A  CALLER  185 

came.  Meeting  blackmail,  paying  blackmail  for  as 
long  as  Wassaquam  had  been  in  the  house,  for  as  long 
as  it  took  to  make  the  once  muscular,  powerful  figure 
of  the  sailor  who  threatened  to  "  talk  "  into  the  swol- 
len, whiskey-soaked  hulk  of  the  man  dying  now  on  the 
lounge. 

For  his  state  that  day,  the  man  blamed  Benjamin 
Corvet.  Alan,  forcing  himself  to  touch  the  swollen 
face,  shuddered  at  thought  of  the  truth  underlying 
that  accusation.  Benjamin  Corvet's  act  —  whatever 
it  might  be  that  this  man  knew  —  undoubtedly  had  de- 
stroyed not  only  him  who  paid  the  blackmail  but  him 
who  received  it;  the  effect  of  that  act  was  still  going 
on,  destroying,  blighting.  Its  threat  of  shame  was 
not  only  against  Benjamin  Corvet;  it  threatened  also 
all  whose  names  must  be  connected  with  Corvet's. 
Alan  had  refused  to  accept  any  stigma  in  his  relation- 
ship with  Corvet;  but  now  he  could  not  refuse  to  ac- 
cept it.  This  shame  threatened  Alan;  it  threatened 
also  the  Sherrills.  Was  it  not  because  of  this  that 
Benjamin  Corvet  had  objected  to  Sherrill's  name  ap- 
pearing with  his  own  in  the  title  of  the  ship-owning 
firm?  And  was  it  not  because  of  this  that  Corvet's 
intimacy  with  Sherrill  and  his  comradeship  with  Con- 
stance had  been  alternated  by  times  in  which  he  had 
frankly  avoided  them  both?  What  Sherrill  had  told 
Alan  and  even  Corvet's  gifts  to  him  had  not  been  able 
to  make  Alan  feel  that  without  question  Corvet  was 
his  father,  but  now  shame  and  horror  were  making  him 
feel  it ;  in  horror  at  Corvet's  act  —  whatever  it  might 
be  —  and  in  shame  at  Corvet's  cowardice,  Alan  was 
thinking  of  Benjamin  Corvet  as  his  father.  This 
shame,  this  horror,  were  his  inheritance. 


186  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

He  left  Luke  and  went  to  the  window  to  see  if  the 
doctor  was  coming.  He  had  called  the  doctor  because 
in  his  first  sight  of  Luke  he  had  not  recognized  that 
Luke  was  beyond  the  aid  of  doctors  and  because  to 
summon  a  doctor  under  such  circumstances  was  the 
right  thing  to  do;  but  he  had  thought  of  the  doctor 
also  as  a  witness  to  anything  Luke  might  say.  But 
now  —  did  he  want  a  witness  ?  He  had  no  thought  of 
concealing  anything  for  his  own  sake  or  for  his  fa- 
ther's; but  he  would,  at  least,  want  the  chance  to  de- 
termine the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  to  be 
made  public. 

He  hurried  back  to  Luke.  "  What  is  it,  Luke?  "  he 
cried  to  him.  "What  can  you  tell?  Listen!  Luke 
—  Luke,  is  it  about  the  MiwaJca  —  the  Miwaka? 
Luke!" 

Luke  had  sunk  into  a  stupor;  Alan  shook  him  and 
shouted  in  his  ear  without  awakening  response.  As 
Alan  straightened  and  stood  hopelessly  looking  down 
at  him,  the  telephone  bell  rang  sharply.  Thinking  it 
might  be  something  about  the  doctor,  he  went  to  it 
and  answered  it.  Constance  Sherrill's  voice  came  to 
him ;  her  first  words  made  it  clear  that  she  was  at  home 
and  had  just  come  in. 

"  The  servants  tell  me  some  one  was  making  a  dis- 
turbance beside  your  house  a  while  ago,"  she  said, 
"  and  shouting  something  about  Mr.  Corvet.  Is  there 
something  wrong  there?  Have  you  discovered  some- 
thing? " 

He  shook  excitedly  while,  holding  his  hand  over  the 
transmitter  lest  Luke  should  break  out  again  and  she 
should  hear  it,  he  wondered  what  he  should  say  to  her. 
He  could  think  of  nothing,  in  his  excitement,  which 


A  CALLER  187 

would  reassure  her  and  merely  put  her  off;  he  was  not 
capable  of  controlling  his  voice  so  as  to  do  that. 

"  Please  don't  ask  me  just  now,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he 
managed.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I  can  —  later." 

His  reply,  he  recognized,  only  made  her  more  certain 
that  there  was  something  the  matter,  but  he  could  not 
add  anything  to  it.  He  found  Luke,  when  he  went 
back  to  him,  still  in  coma;  the  blood-shot  veins  stood 
out  against  the  ghastly  grayness  of  his  face,  and  his 
stertorous  breathing  sounded  through  the  rooms. 

Constance  Sherrill  had  come  in  a  few  moments  be- 
fore from  an  afternoon  reception;  the  servants  told 
her  at  once  that  something  was  happening  at  Mr.  Cor- 
vet's.  They  had  heard  shouts  and  had  seen  a  man 
pounding  upon  the  door  there,  but  they  had  not  taken 
it  upon  themselves  to  go  over  there.  She  had  told 
the  chauffeur  to  wait  with  the  motor  and  had  run  at 
once  to  the  telephone  and  called  Alan;  his  attempt  to 
put  her  off  made  her  certain  that  what  had  happened 
was  not  finished  but  was  still  going  on.  Her  anxiety 
and  the  sense  of  their  responsibility  for  Alan  overrode 
at  once  all  other  thought.  She  told  the  servants  to 
call  her  father  at  the  office  and  tell  him  something  was 
wrong  at  Mr.  Corvet's;  then  she  called  her  maid  and 
hurried  out  to  the  motor. 

"  To  Mr.  Corvet's  —  quickly !  "  she  directed. 

Looking  through  the  front  doors  of  her  car  as  it 
turned  into  Astor  Street,  she  saw  a  young  man,  carry- 
ing a  doctor's  case,  run  up  the  steps  of  Corvet's  house. 
This,  quite  unreasonably  since  she  had  just  talked  with 
Alan,  added  to  her  alarm;  she  put  her  hand  on  the 
catch  of  the  door  and  opened  it  a  little  so  as  to  be 


188  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

ready  to  leave  the  car  as  soon  as  it  stopped.  As  the 
car  drew  to  the  curb,  she  sprang  out,  and  stopped  only 
long  enough  to  tell  the  chauffeur  to  be  attentive  and 
to  wait  ready  to  come  into  the  house,  if  he  was  called. 

The  man  with  the  bag  —  Constance  recognized  him 
as  a  young  doctor  who  was  starting  in  practice  in  the 
neighborhood  —  was  just  being  admitted  as  she  and 
her  maid  reached  the  steps.  Alan  stood  holding  the 
door  open  and  yet  blocking  entrance  when  she  came 
up.  The  sight  of  him  told  her  that  it  was  not  phys- 
ical hurt  that  happened  to  him,  but  his  face  showed 
her  there  had  been  basis  for  her  fright. 

"  You  must  not  come  in ! "  he  denied  her ;  but  she 
followed  the  doctor  so  that  Alan  could  not  close  the 
door  upon  her.  He  yielded  then,  and  she  and  her  maid 
went  on  into  the  hall. 

She  started  as  she  saw  the  figure  upon  the  couch  in 
the  library,  and  as  the  sound  of  its  heavy  breathing 
reached  her;  and  the  wild  fancy  which  had  come  to 
her  when  the  servants  had  told  her  of  what  was  going 
on  —  a  fancy  that  Uncle  Benny  had  come  back  —  was 
banished  instantly. 

Alan  led  her  into  the  room  across  from  the  library. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  come  in,"  he  said.  "  I 
shouldn't  have  let  you  in ;  but  —  you  saw  him." 

"  Yes." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"  Know  him?  "     She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  mean,  you've  never  seen  him  before  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  His  name  is  Luke  —  he  speaks  of  himself  by  that 
name.  Did  you  ever  hear  my  father  mention  a  man 
named  Luke?" 


A  CALLER  189 

"No;  never." 

Luke's  voice  cut  suddenly  their  conversation;  the 
doctor  probably  had  given  him  some  stimulant. 

"Where'sh  Ben  Corvet? "  Luke  demanded  arro- 
gantly of  the  doctor.  "  You  go  get  Ben  Corvet ! 
Tell  Ben  Corvet  I  want  drink  right  away.  Tell  Ben 
Corvet  I  want  my  thousan'  dollar  ...  ! " 

Constance  turned  swiftly  to  her  maid.  "  Go  out  to 
the  car  and  wait  for  me,"  she  commanded. 

Luke's  muffled,  heavy  voice  went  on;  moments  while 
he  fought  for  breath  interrupted  it. 

"You  hear  me,  you  damn  Injin!  .  .  .  You  go  tell 
Ben  Corvet  I  want  my  thousan'  dollars,  or  I  make  it 
two  nex'  time !  You  hear  me ;  you  go  tell  Ben  Cor- 
vet. .  .  .  You  let  me  go,  you  damn  Injin!".  .  . 

Through  the  doorway  to  the  library  they  could  see 
the  doctor  force  Luke  back  upon  the  couch;  Luke 
fought  him  furiously ;  then,  suddenly  as  he  had  stirred 
to  strength  and  fury,  Luke  collapsed  again.  His  voice 
went  on  a  moment  more,  rapidly  growing  weaker : 

"  You  tell  Ben  Corvet  I  want  my  money,  or  I'll  tell. 
He  knows  what  I'll  tell.  .  .  .  You  don't  know,  you 
Injin  devil.  .  .  .  Ben  Corvet  knows,  and  I  know.  .  .  . 
Tell  him  I'll  tell  .  .  .  I'll  tell  .  .  .  I'll  tell!"  The 
threatening  voice  stopped  suddenly. 

Constance,  very  pale,  again  faced  Alan.  "  Of 
course,  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  Uncle  Benny  has 
been  paying  blackmail  to  this  man.  For  years,  per- 
haps. .  .  ."  She  repeated  the  word  after  an  instant, 
in  a  frightened  voice,  "  Blackmail !  " 

"  Won't  you  please  go,  Miss  Sherrill  ?  "  Alan  urged 
her.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  come ;  but  you  mustn't 
stay  now.  He's  —  he's  dying,  of  course." 


190  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

She  seated  herself  upon  a  chair.  "  I'm  going  to 
stay  with  you,"  she  said  simply.  It  was  not,  she  knew, 
to  share  the  waiting  for  the  man  in  the  next  room  to 
die;  in  that,  of  itself,  there  could  be  nothing  for  him 
to  feel.  It  was  to  be  with  him  while  realization  which 
had  come  to  her  was  settling  upon  him  too  —  realiza- 
tion of  what  this  meant  to  him.  He  was  realizing  that, 
she  thought;  he  had  realized  it;  it  made  him,  at  mo- 
ments, forget  her  while,  listening  for  sounds  from  the 
other  room,  he  paced  back  and  forth  beside  the  table 
xor  stood  staring  away,  clinging  to  the  portieres.  He 
left  her  presently,  and  went  across  the  hall  to  the  doc- 
tor. The  man  on  the  couch  had  stirred  as  though  to 
start  up  again ;  the  voice  began  once  more,  but  now  its 
words  were  wholly  indistinguishable,  meaningless,  in- 
coherent. They  stopped,  and  Luke  lay  still;  the  doc- 
tor—  Alan  was  helping  him  now  —  arranged  a  quite 
inert  form  upon  the  couch.  The  doctor  bent  over 
him. 

"Is  he  dead?"  Constance  heard  Alan  ask. 

"Not  yet,"  the  doctor  answered;  "but  it  won't  be 
long,  now." 

"  There's  nothing  you  can  do  for  him  ?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  There's  nothing  you  can  do  to  make  him  talk  — 
bring  him  to  himself  enough  so  that  he  will  tell  what 
he  keeps  threatening  to  tell?" 

The  doctor  shrugged.  "  How  many  times,  do  you 
suppose,  he's  been  drunk  and  still  not  told?  Conceal- 
ment is  his  established  habit  now.  It's  an  inhibition; 
even  in  wandering,  he  stops  short  of  actually  telling 
anything." 

"  He  came  here  — "     Alan  told  briefly  to  the  doctor 


A  CALLER  191 

the  circumstances  of  the  man's  coming.  The  doctor 
moved  back  from  the  couch  to  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"  I'll  wait,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  until  it's  over.  He 
seemed  to  want  to  say  something  else,  and  after  a 
moment  he  came  out  with  it.  "  You  needn't  be  afraid 
of  my  talking  outside  .  .  .  professional  secrecy,  of 
course." 

Alan  came  back  to  Constance.  Outside,  the  gray  of 
dusk  was  spreading,  and  within  the  house  it  had  grown 
dark ;  Constance  heard  the  doctor  turn  on  a  light,  and 
the  shadowy  glow  of  a  desk  lamp  came  from  the  library. 
Alan  walked  to  and  fro  with  uneven  steps ;  he  did  not 
speak  to  her,  nor  she  to  him.  It  was  very  quiet  in  the 
library ;  she  could  not  even  hear  Luke's  breathing  now. 
Then  she  heard  the  doctor  moving;  Alan  went  to  the 
light  and  switched  it  on,  as  the  doctor  came  out  to 
them. 

"  It's  over,"  he  said  to  Alan.  "  There's  a  law  cov- 
ers these  cases;  you  may  not  be  familiar  with  it.  I'll 
make  out  the  death  certificate  —  pneumonia  and  a 
weak  heart  with  alcoholism.  But  the  police  have  to  be 
notified  at  once;  you  have  no  choice  as  to  that.  I'll 
look  after  those  things  for  you,  if  you  want." 

"  Thank  you ;  if  you  will."  Alan  went  with  the  doc- 
tor to  the  door  and  saw  him  drive  away.  Returning, 
he '  drew  the  library  portieres ;  then,  coming  back  to 
Constance,  he  picked  up  her  muff  and  collar  from  the 
chair  where  she  had  thrown  them,  and  held  them  out 
to  her, 

"  You'll  go  now,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  said.  "  Indeed, 
you  mustn't  stay  here  —  your  car's  still  waiting,  and 
—  you  mustn't  stay  here  ...  in  this  house !  " 

He  was  standing,  waiting  to  open  the  door  for  her, 


192  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

almost  where  he  had  halted  on  that  morning,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  when  he  had  first  come  to  the  house  in  an- 
swer to  Benjamin  Corvet's  summons;  and  she  was 
where  she  had  stood  to  receive  him.  Memory  of  how 
he  had  looked  then  —  eager,  trembling  a  little  with 
excitement,  expecting  only  to  find  his  father  and  hap- 
piness —  came  to  her ;  and  as  it  contrasted  with  the 
way  she  saw  him  now,  she  choked  queerly  as  she  tried 
to  speak.  He  was  very  white,  but  quite  controlled; 
lines  not  upon  his  face  before  had  come  there. 

"  Won't  you  come  over  home  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  and  wait  for  father  there  till  we  can  think  this  thing 
out  together?" 

Her  sweetness  almost  broke  him  down.  "  This  .  .  . 
together!  Think  this  out!  Oh,  it's  plain  enough, 
isn't  it?  For  years  —  for  as  long  as  Wassaquam  has 
been  here,  my  father  has  been  seeing  that  man  and 
paying  blackmail  to  him  twice  a  year,  at  least!  He 
lived  in  that  man's  power.  He  kept  money  in  the  house 
for  him  always !  It  wasn't  anything  imaginary  that 
hung  over  my  father  —  or  anything  created  in  his  own 
mind.  It  was  something  real  —  real ;  it  was  disgrace 
—  disgrace  and  worse  —  something  he  deserved ;  and 
that  he  fought  with  blackmail  money,  like  a  coward ! 
Dishonor  —  cowardice  —  blackmail !  " 

She  drew  a  little  nearer  to  him.  "  You  didn't  want 
me  to  know,"  she  said.  "  You  tried  to  put  me  off  when 
I  called  you  on  the  telephone ;  and  —  when  I  came 
here,  you  wanted  me  to  go  away  before  I  heard.  Why 
didn't  you  want  me  to  know?  If  he  was  your  father, 
wasn't  he  our  —  friend  ?  Mine  and  my  father's  ? 
You  must  let  us  help  you." 

As  she  approached,  he  had  drawn  back  from  her. 


A  CALLER  193 

"  No ;  this  is  mine !  "  he  denied  her.  "  Not  yours  or 
your  father's.  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  this. 
Didn't  he  try  in  little  cowardly  ways  to  keep  you  out 
of  it?  But  he  couldn't  do  that;  your  friendship  meant 
too  much  to  him;  he  couldn't  keep  away  from  you. 
But  I  can  —  I  can  do  that !  You  must  go  out  of  this 
house ;  you  must  never  come  in  here  again ! " 

Her  eyes  filled,  as  she  watched  him;  never  had  she 
liked  him  so  much  as  now,  as  he  moved  to  open  the  door 
for  her. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said  almost  wistfully,  "  it  seemed 
to  me  that,  whatever  he  had  done,  it  must  have  been 
mostly  against  me.  His  leaving  everything  to  me 
seemed  to  mean  that  I  was  the  one  that  he  had 
wronged,  and  that  he  was  trying  to  make  it  up  to  me. 
But  it  isn't  that ;  it  can't  be  that !  It  is  something 
much  worse  than  that!  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  glad  I  haven't 
used  much  of  his  money !  Hardly  any  —  not  more 
than  I  can  give  back!  It  wasn't  the  money  and  the 
house  he  left  me  that  mattered ;  what  he  really  left  me 
was  just  this  .  .  .  dishonor,  shame  .  .  ." 

The  doorbell  rang,  and  Alan  turned  to  the  door  and 
threw  it  open.  In  the  dusk  the  figure  of  the  man  out- 
side was  not  at  all  recognizable;  but  as  he  entered 
with  heavy  and  deliberate  steps,  passing  Alan  without 
greeting  and  going  straight  to  Constance,  Alan  saw 
by  the  light  in  the  hall  that  it  was  Spearman. 

"What's  up?"  Spearman  asked.  "They  tried  to 
get  your  father  at  the  office  and  then  me,  but  neither 
of  us  was  there.  They  got  me  afterwards  at  the  club. 
They  said  you'd  come  over  here;  but  that  must  have 
been  more  than  two  hours  ago." 

His  gaze  went  on  past  her  to  the  drawn  hangings  of 


194  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  room  to  the  right;  and  he  seemed  to  appreciate 
their  significance;  for  his  face  whitened  under  its  tan, 
and  an  odd  hush  came  suddenly  upon  him. 

"  Is  it  Ben,  Connie?  "  he  whispered.  *'  Ben  .  .  . 
come  back?  " 

He  drew  the  curtains  partly  open.  The  light  in 
the  library  had  been  extinguished,  and  the  light  that 
came  from  the  hall  swayed  about  the  room  with  the 
movement  of  the  curtains  and  gave  a  momentary  sem- 
blance of  life  to  the  face  of  the  man  upon  the  couch. 
Spearman  drew  the  curtains  quickly  together  again, 
still  holding  to  them  and  seeming  for  an  instant  to 
cling  to  them;  then  he  shook  himself  together,  threw 
the  curtains  wide  apart,  and  strode  into  the  room. 
He  switched  on  the  light  and  went  directly  to  the 
couch;  Alan  followed  him. 

"He's  — dead?" 

"  Who  is  he?  "  Alan  demanded. 

Spearman  seemed  to  satisfy  himself  first  as  to  the 
answer  to  his  question.  "  How  should  I  know  who  he 
is  ?  "  he  asked.  "  There  used  to  be  a  wheelsman  on  the 
Martha  Corvet  years  ago  who  looked  like  him;  or 
looked  like  what  this  fellow  may  have  looked  like  once. 
I  can't  be  sure." 

He  turned  to  Constance.  "  You're  going  home, 
Connie?  I'll  see  you  over  there.  I'll  come  back  about 
this  afterward,  Conrad." 

Alan  followed  them  to  the  door  and  closed  it  after 
them.  He  spread  the  blankets  over  Luke.  Luke's 
coats,  which  Alan  had  removed,  lay  upon  a  chair, 
and  he  looked  them  over  for  marks  of  identifica- 
tion; the  mackinaw  bore  the  label  of  a  dealer  in 
Manitowoc  —  wherever  that  might  be;  Alan  did  not 


A  CALLER  ,  195 

know.  A  side  pocket  produced  an  old  briar:  there 
was  nothing  else.  Then  Alan  walked  restlessly  about, 
awaiting  Spearman.  Spearman,  he  believed,  knew  this 
man ;  Spearman  had  not  even  ventured  upon  modified 
denial  until  he  was  certain  that  the  man  was  dead ;  and 
then  he  had  answered  so  as  not  to  commit  himself,  pend- 
ing learning  from  Constance  what  Luke  had  told. 

But  Luke  had  said  nothing  about  Spearman.  It 
had  been  Corvet,  and  Corvet  alone,  of  whom  Luke  had 
spoken ;  it  was  Corvet  whom  he  had  accused ;  it  was 
Corvet  who  had  given  him  money.  Was  it  conceiv- 
able, then,  that  there  had  been  two  such  events  in  Cor- 
vet's  life?  That  one  of  these  events  concerned  the 
Miwaka  and  Spearman  and  some  one  —  some  one 
"  with  a  bullet  hole  above  his  eye  " —  who  had  "  got  " 
Corvet;  and  that  the  other  event  had  concerned  Luke 
and  something  else?  It  was  not  conceivable,  Alan  was 
sure;  it  was  all  one  thing.  If  Corvet  had  had  to  do 
with  the  Miwaka,  then  Luke  had  had  to  do  with  it  too. 
And  Spearman?  But  if  Spearman  had  been  involved 
in  that  guilty  thing,  had  not  Luke  known  it?  Then 
why  had  not  Luke  mentioned  Spearman?  Or  had 
Spearman  not  been  really  involved?  Had  it  been, 
perhaps,  only  evidence  of  knowledge  of  what  Corvet 
had  done  that  Spearman  had  tried  to  discover  and 
destroy  ? 

Alan  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  as  he  heard 
Spearman  upon  the  steps  again.  Spearman  waited 
only  until  the  door  had  been  reclosed  behind  him. 

"  Well,  Conrad,  what  was  the  idea  of  bringing  Miss 
Sherrill  into  this?" 

"  I  didn't  bring  her  in ;  I  tried  the  best  I  could  to 
keep  her  out." 


196  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  Out  of  what  —  exactly?  " 

"  You  know  better  than  I  do.  You  know  exactly 
what  it  is.  You  know  that  man,  Spearman ;  you 
know  what  he  came  here  for.  I  don't  mean  money;  I 
mean  you  know  why  he  came  here  for  money,  and  why 
he  got  it.  I  tried,  as  well  as  I  could,  to  make  him  tell 
me;  but  he  wouldn't  do  it.  There's  disgrace  of  some 
sort  here,  of  course  —  disgrace  that  involves  my  father 
and,  I  think,  you  too.  If  you're  not  guilty  with  my 
father,  you'll  help  me  now ;  if  you  are  guilty,  then,  at 
least,  your  refusal  to  help  will  let  me  know  that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"  Then  why  did  you  come  back  here  ?  You  came 
back  here  to  protect  yourself  in  some  way." 

"  I  came  back,  you  young  fool,  to  say  something 
to  you  which  I  didn't  want  Miss  Sherrill  to  hear.  I 
didn't  know,  when  I  took  her  away,  how  completely 
you'd  taken  her  into  —  your  father's  affairs.  I  told 
you  this  man  may  have  been  a  wheelsman  on  the  Cor- 
vet;  I  don't  know  more  about  him  than  that;  I  don't 
even  know  that  certainly.  Of  course,  I  knew  Ben  Cor- 
vet  was  paying  blackmail;  I've  known  for  years  that 
he  was  giving  up  money  to  some  one.  I  don't  know 
who  he  paid  it  to;  or  for  what." 

The  strain  of  the  last  few  hours  was  telling  upon 
Alan;  his  skin  flushed  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  He 
paced  up  and  down  while  he  controlled  himself. 

"That's  not  enough,  Spearman,"  he  said  finally. 
"I  —  I've  felt  you,  somehow,  underneath  all  these 
things.  The  first  time  I  saw  you,  you  were  in  this 
house  doing  something  you  ought  not  to  have  been  do- 
ing; you  fought  me  then;  you  would  have  killed  me 
rather  than  not  get  away.  Two  weeks  ago,  some  one 


A  CALLER  197 

attacked  me  on  the  street  —  for  robbery,  they  said; 
but  I  know  it  wasn't  robbery  =— " 

"  You're  not  so  crazy  as  to  be  trying  to  involve  me 
in  that—" 

There  came  a  sound  to  them  from  the  hall,  a  sound 
unmistakably  denoting  some  presence.  Spearman 
jerked  suddenly  up ;  Alan,  going  to  the  door  and  look- 
ing into  the  hall,  saw  Wassaquam.  The  Indian  evi- 
dently had  returned  to  the  house  some  time  before;  he 
had  been  bringing  to  Alan  now  the  accounts  which  he 
had  settled.  He  seemed  to  have  been  standing  in  the 
hall  for  some  time,  listening;  but  he  came  in  now, 
looking  inquiringly  from  one  to  the  other  of  them. 

"  Not  friends?  "  he  inquired.     "  You  and  Henry?  " 

Alan's  passion  broke  out  suddenly.  "  We're  any- 
thing but  that,  Judah.  I  found  him,  the  first  night  I 
got  here  and  while  you  were  away,  going  through  my 
father's  things.  I  fought  with  him,  and  he  ran  away. 
He  was  the  one  that  broke  into  my  father's  desks; 
maybe  you'll  believe  that,  even  if  no  one  else  will." 

"Yes?"  the  Indian  questioned.  "Yes?"  It  was 
plain  that  he  not  only  believed  but  that  believing  gave 
him  immense  satisfaction.  He  took  Alan's  arm  and 
led  him  into  the  smaller  library.  He  knelt  before  one 
of  the  drawers  under  the  bookshelves  —  the  drawer, 
Alan  recalled,  which  he  himself  had  been  examining 
when  he  had  found  Wassaquam  watching  him.  He 
drew  out  the  drawer  and  dumped  its  contents  out  upon 
the  floor ;  he  turned  the  drawer  about  then,  and  pulled 
the  bottom  out  of  it.  Beneath  the  bottom  which  he 
had  removed  appeared  now  another  bottom  and^  a  few 
sheets  of  paper  scrawled  in  an  uneven  hand  and  with 
different  colored  inks. 


198  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

At  sight  of  them,  Spearman,  who  had  followed  them 
into  the  room,  uttered  an  oath  and  sprang  forward. 
The  Indian's  small  dark  hand  grasped  Spearman's 
wrist,  and  his  face  twitched  itself  into  a  fierce  grin 
which  showed  how  little  civilization  had  modified  in 
him  the  aboriginal  passions.  But  Spearman  did  not 
try  to  force  his  way;  instead,  he  drew  back  suddenly. 

Alan  stooped  and  picked  up  the  papers  and  put  them 
in  his  pocket.  If  the  Indian  had  not  been  there,  it 
would  not  have  been  so  easy  for  him  to  do  that,  he 
thought. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    LAND    OF    THE    DRUM 

ALAN  went  with  Wassaquam  into  the  front 
library,  after  the  Indian  had  shown  Spearman 
out. 

"  This  was  the  man,  Judah,  who  came  for  Mr.  Cor- 
vet  that  night  I  was  hurt?" 

"  Yes,  Alan,"  Wassaquam  said. 

"  He  was  the  man,  then,  who  came  here  twice  a  year, 
at  least,  to  see  Mr.  Corvet." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  Alan  said.  Wassaquam  had 
made  no  demonstration  of  any  sort  since  he  had 
snatched  at  Spearman's  wrist  to  hold  him  back  when 
Alan  had  bent  to  the  drawer.  Alan  could  define  no 
real  change  now  in  the  Indian's  manner;  but  he  knew 
that,  since  Wassaquam  had  found  him  quarreling  with 
Spearman,  the  Indian  somehow  had  "  placed "  him 
more  satisfactorily.  The  reserve,  bordering  upon  dis- 
trust, with  which  Wassaquam  had  observed  Alan,  cer- 
tainly was  lessened.  It  was  in  recognition  of  this  that 
Alan  now  asked,  "  Can  you  tell  me  now  why  he  came 
here,  Judah?" 

"  I  have  told  you  I  do  not  know,"  Wassaquam  re- 
plied. "  Ben  always  saw  him ;  Ben  gave  him  money. 
I  do  not  know  why." 


200  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Alan  had  been  holding  his  hand  over  the  papers 
which  he  had  thrust  into  his  pocket ;  he  went  back  into 
the  smaller  library  and  spread  them  under  the  reading 
lamp  to  examine  them.  Sherrill  had  assumed  that 
Corvet  had  left  in  the  house  a  record  which  would  fully 
explain  what  had  thwarted  his  life,  and  would  shed 
light  upon  what  had  happened  to  Corvet,  and  why  he 
had  disappeared;  Alan  had  accepted  this  assumption. 
The  careful  and  secret  manner  in  which  these  pages 
had  been  kept,  and  the  importance  which  Wassaquam 
plainly  had  attached  to  them  —  and  which  rr._:  have 
been  a  result  of  his  knowing  that  Corvet  regarded 
them  of  the  utmost  importance  —  made  Alan  certain 
that  he  had  found  the  record  which  Sherrill  had  be- 
lieved must  be  there.  Spearman's  manner,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  discovery,  showed  too  that  this  had  been  what 
he  had  been  searching  for  in  his  secret  visit  to  the 
house. 

But,  as  Alan  looked  the  pages  over  now,  he  felt  a 
chill  of  disappointment  and  chagrin.  They  did  not 
contain  any  narrative  concerning  Benjamin  Corvet's 
life;  they  did  not  even  relate  to  a  single  event.  They 
were  no  narrative  at  all.  They  were  —  in  his  first 
examination  of  them,  he  could  not  tell  what  they  were. 

They  consisted  in  all  of  some  dozen  sheets  of  irregu- 
lar size,  some  of  which  had  been  kept  much  longer  than 
others,  a  few  of  which  even  appeared  fresh  and  new. 
The  three  pages  which  Alan  thought,  from  their  yel- 
lowed and  worn  look,  must  be  the  oldest,  and  which 
must  have  been  kept  for  many  years,  contained  only  a 
list  of  names  and  addresses.  Having  assured  himself 
that  there  was  nothing  else  on  them,  he  laid  them  aside. 
The  remaining  pages,  which  he  counted  as  ten  in  num- 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUM     201 

ber,  contained  nearly  a  hundred  brief  clippings  from 
newspapers ;  the  clippings  had  been  very  carefully  cut 
out,  they  had  been  pasted  with  painful  regularity  on 
the  sheets,  and  each  had  been  dated  across  its  face  — 
dates  made  with  many  different  pens  and  with  many 
different  inks,  but  all  in  the  same  irregular  handwrit- 
ing as  the  letter  which  Alan  had  received  from  Benja- 
min Corvet. 

Alan,  his  fingers  numb  in  his  disappointment,  turned 
and  examined  all  these  pages ;  but  they  contained  noth- 
ing else.  He  read  one  of  the  clippings,  which  was 
dated  "  Feb.  1912." 

The  passing  away  of  one  of  the  oldest  residents  of 
Emmet  county  occurred  at  the  poor  farm  on  Thurs- 
day of  last  week.  Mr.  Fred  Westhouse  was  one  of 
four  brothers  brought  by  their  parents  into  Emmet 
county  in  1846.  He  established  himself  here  as  a 
farmer  and  was  well  known  among  our  people  for 
many  years.  He  was  nearly  the  last  of  his  family, 
which  was  quite  well  off  at  one  time,  Mr.  Westhouse's 
three  brothers  and  his  father  having  perished  in  various 
disasters  upon  the  lake.  His  wife  died  two  years  ago. 
He  is  survived  bv  a  daughter,  Mrs.  Arthur  Pearl,  of 
Flint. 

He  read  another: 

Hallford-Spens.  On  Tuesday  last  Miss  Audrey 
Hallford,  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bert  Hallford,  of 
this  place,  was  united  in  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony 
to  Mr.  Robert  Spens,  of  Escanaba.  Miss  Audrey  is 
one  of  our  most  popular  young  ladies  and  was  valedic- 
torian of  her  class  at  the  high  school  graduation  last 
year.  All  wish  the  young  couple  well. 


202  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

He  read  another: 

Born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hal  French,  a  daughter, 
Saturday  afternoon  last.  Miss  Vera  Arabella  French, 
at  her  arrival  weighed  seven  and  one-half  pounds. 

This  clipping  was  dated,  in  Benjamin  Corvet's  hand, 
"  Sturgeon  Bay,  Wis.,  Aug.  1914."  Alan  put  it  aside 
in  bewilderment  and  amaze  and  took  up  again  the 
sheets  he  first  had  looked  at.  The  names  and  ad- 
dresses on  these  oldest,  yellowed  pages  had  been  first 
written,  it  was  plain,  all  at  the  same  time  and  with  the 
same  pen  and  ink,  and  each  sheet  in  the  beginning  had 
contained  seven  or  eight  names.  Some  of  these  orig- 
inal names  and  even  the  addresses  had  been  left  un- 
changed, but  most  of  them  had  been  scratched  out  and 
altered  many  times  —  other  and  quite  different  names 
had  been  substituted;  the  pages  had  become  finally 
almost  illegible,  crowded  scrawls,  rewritten  again  and 
again  in  Corvet's  cramped  hand.  Alan  strained  for- 
ward, holding  the  first  sheet  to  the  light. 

Alan  seized  the  clippings  he  had  looked  at  before 
and  compared  them  swiftly  with  the  page  he  had  just 
read ;  two  of  the  names  —  Westhouse  and  French  — 
were  the  same  as  those  upon  this  list.  Suddenly  he 
grasped  the  other  pages  of  the  list  and  looked  them 
through  for  his  own  name;  but  it  was  not  there.  He 
dropped  the  sheets  upon  the  table  and  got  up  and 
began  to  stride  about  the  room. 

He  felt  that  in  this  list  and  in  these  clippings  there 
must  be,  somehow,  some  one  general  meaning — they 
must  relate  in  some  way  to  one  thing;  they  must  have 
deeply,  intensely  concerned  Benjamin  Corvet's  disap- 
pearance and  his  present  fate,  whatever  that  might  be, 


<uJ*L     f?U      L^.,^      fa 

_    ._  _  L~  I     "  *•  l/« 

*  v\jm 

uu    <J^%    A^L 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUM  203 

and  they  must  concern  Alan's  fate  as  well.  But  in 
their  disconnection,  their  incoherence,  he  could  discern 
no  common  thread.  What  conceivable  bond  could  there 
have  been  uniting  Benjamin  Corvet  at  once  with  an  old 
man  dying  upon  a  poor  farm  in  Emmet  County,  wher- 
ever that  might  be,  and  with  a  baby  girl,  now  some  two 
years  old,  in  Sturgeon  Bay,  Wisconsin?  He  bent  sud- 
denly and  swept  the  pages  into  the  drawer  of  the  table 
and  reclosed  the  drawer,  as  he  heard  the  doorbell  ring 
and  Wassaquam  went  to  answer  it.  It  was  the  police, 
Wassaquam  came  to  tell  him,  who  had  come  for  Luke's 
body. 

Alan  went  out  into  the  hall  to  meet  them.  The 
coroner's  man  either  had  come  with  them  or  had  ar- 
rived at  the  same  time ;  he  introduced  himself  to  Alan, 
and  his  inquiries  made  plain  that  the  young  doctor 
whom  Alan  had  called  for  Luke  had  fully  carried  out 
his  offer  to  look  after  these  things,  for  the  coroner 
was  already  supplied  with  an  account  of  what  had 
taken  place.  A  sailor  formerly  employed  on  the  Cor- 
vet ships,  the  coroner's  office  had  been  told,  had  come 
to  the  Corvet  house,  ill  and  seeking  aid;  Mr.  Corvet 
not  being  at  home,  the  people  of  the  house  had  taken 
the  man  in  and  called  the  doctor;  but  the  man  had 
been  already  beyond  doctors'  help  and  had  died  in  a 
few  hours  of  pneumonia  and  alcoholism;  in  Mr.  Cor- 
vet's  absence  it  had  been  impossible  to  learn  the  sailor's 
full  name. 

Alan  left  corroboration  of  this  story  mostly  to  Was- 
saquam, the  servant's  position  in  the  house  being  more 
easily  explicable  than  his  own;  but  he  found  that  his 
right  there  was  not  questioned,  and  that  the  police 
accepted  him  as  a  member  of  the  household.  He  sus- 


204  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

pected  that  they  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  push 
inquiry  very  actively  in  such  a  home  as  this. 

After  the  police  had  gone,  he  called  Wassaquam  into 
the  library  and  brought  the  lists  and  clippings  out 
again. 

"  Do  you  know  at  all  what  these  are,  Judah  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  Alan.  I  have  seen  Ben  have  them,  and  take 
them  out  and  put  them  back.  That  is  all  I  know." 

"  My  father  never  spoke  to  you  about  them  ?  " 

"  Once  he  spoke  to  me ;  he  said  I  was  not  to  tell  or 
speak  of  them  to  any  one,  or  even  to  him." 

"  Do  you  know  any  of  these  people?  " 

He  gave  the  lists  to  Wassaquam,  who  studied  them 
through  attentively,  holding  them  to  the  lamp. 

"  No,  Alan." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  any  of  their  names  before?  " 

"  That  may  be.  I  do  not  know.  They  are  common 
names." 

"  Do  you  know  the  places  ?  " 

"Yes  —  the  places.  They  are  lake  ports  or  little 
villages  on  the  lakes.  I  have  been  in  most  of  them, 
Alan.  Emmet  County,  Alan,  I  came  from  there. 
Henry  comes  from  there  too." 

"Henry  Spearman?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  that  is  where  they  hear  the  Drum."   * 

"  Yes,  Alan." 

"  My  father  took  newspapers  from  those  places,  did 
he  not?" 

Wassaquam  looked  over  the  addresses  again. 
"  Yes ;  from  all.  He  took  them  for  the  shipping  news, 
he  said.  And  sometimes  he  cut  pieces  out  of  them  — 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUM     205 

these  pieces,  I  see  now;  and  afterward  I  burned  the 
papers;  he  would  not  let  me  only  throw  them  away." 

"  That's  all  you  know  about  them,  Judah?  " 

"Yes,  Alan;  that  is  all." 

Alan  dismissed  the  Indian,  who,  stolidly  methodical 
in  the  midst  of  these  events,  went  down-stairs  and 
commenced  to  prepare  a  dinner  which  Alan  knew  he 
could  not  eat.  Alan  got  up  and  moved  about  the 
rooms ;  he  went  back  and  looked  over  the  lists  and  clip- 
pings once  more;  then  he  moved  about  again.  How 
strange  a  picture  of  his  father  did  these  things  call 
up  to  him!  When  he  had  thought  of  Benjamin  Corvet 
before,  it  had  been  as  Sherrill  had  described  him,  pur- 
sued by  some  thought  he  could  not  conquer,  seeking 
relief  in  study,  in  correspondence  with  scientific  socie- 
ties, in  anything  which  could  engross  him  and  shut 
out  memory.  But  now  he  must  think  of  him,  not 
merely  as  one  trying  to  forget;  what  had  thwarted 
Corvet's  life  was  not  only  in  the  past;  it  was  some- 
thing still  going  on.  It  had  amazed  Sherrill  to  learn 
that  Corvet,  for  twenty  years,  had  kept  trace  of  Alan ; 
but  Corvet  had  kept  trace  in  the  same  way  and  with 
the  same  secrecy  of  many  other  people  —  of  about  a 
score  of  people.  When  Alan  thought  of  Corvet,  alone 
here  in  his  silent  house,  he  must  think  of  him  as  solic- 
itous about  these  people;  as  seeking  for  their  names  in 
the  newspapers  which  he  took  for  that  purpose,  and  as 
recording  the  changes  in  their  lives.  The  deaths,  the 
births,  the  marriages  among  these  people  had  been  of 
the  intensest  interest  to  Corvet. 

It  was  possible  that  none  of  these  people  knew 
about  Corvet;  Alan  had  not  known  about  him  in  Kan- 
sas, but  had  known  only  that  some  unknown  person 


206  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

had  sent  money  for  his  support.  But  he  appreciated 
that  it  did  not  matter  whether  they  knew  about  him 
or  not ;  for  at  some  point  common  to  all  of  them,  the 
lives  of  these  people  must  have  touched  Corvet's  life. 
When  Alan  knew  what  had  been  that  point  of  con- 
tact, he  would  know  about  Corvet;  he  would  know 
about  himself. 

Alan  had  seen  among  Corvet's  books  a  set  of  charts 
of  the  Great  Lakes.  He  went  and  got  that  now  and 
an  atlas.  Opening  them  upon  the  table,  he  looked  up 
the  addresses  given  on  Corvet's  list.  They  were  most 
of  them,  he  found,  towns  about  the  northern  end  of 
the  lake ;  a  very  few  were  upon  other  lakes  —  Superior 
and  Huron  —  but  most  were  upon  or  very  close  to  Lake 
Michigan.  These  people  lived  by  means  of  the  lake; 
they  got  their  sustenance  from  it,  as  Corvet  had  lived, 
and  as  Corvet  had  got  his  wealth.  Alan  was  feeling 
like  one  who,  bound,  has  been  suddenly  unloosed. 
From  the  time  when,  coming  to  see  Corvet,  he  had 
found  Corvet  gone  until  now,  he  had  felt  the  impossi- 
bility of  explaining  from  anything  he  knew  or  seemed 
likely  to  learn  the  mystery  which  had  surrounded  him- 
self and  which  had  surrounded  Corvet.  But  these 
names  and  addresses !  They  indeed  offered  something 
to  go  upon,  though  Luke  now  was  forever  still,  and 
his  pockets  had  told  Alan  nothing. 

He  found  Emmet  County  on  the  map  and  put  his  fin- 
ger on  it.  Spearman,  Wassaquam  had  said  came 
from  there.  "  The  Land  of  the  Drum !  "  he  said  aloud. 
Deep  and  sudden  feeling  stirred  in  him  as  he  traced  out 
this  land  on  the  chart  —  the  little  towns  and  villages, 
the  islands  and  headlands,  their  lights  and  their  uneven 
shores.  A  feeling  of  "  home "  had  come  to  him,  a 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUM  207 

feeling  he  had  not  had  on  coming  to  Chicago.  There 
were  Indian  names  and  French  up  there  about  the 
meetings  of  the  great  waters.  Beaver  Island!  He 
thought  of  Michabou  and  the  raft.  The  sense  that 
he  was  of  these  lakes,  that  surge  of  feeling  which  he 
had  felt  first  in  conversation  with  Constance  Sherrill 
was  strengthened  an  hundredfold;  he  found  himself 
humming  a  tune.  He  did  not  know  where  he  had  heard 
it ;  indeed,  it  was  not  the  sort  of  tune  which  one  knows 
from  having  heard ;  it  was  the  sort  which  one  just 
knows.  A  rhyme  fitted  itself  to  the  hum, 

"  Seagull,   seagull   sit  on  the  sand, 
It's  never  fair  weather  when  you're  on  the  land." 

He  gazed  down  at  the  lists  of  names  which  Benja- 
min Corvet  had  kept  so  carefully  and  so  secretly; 
these  were  his  father's  people  too ;  these  ragged  shores 
and  the  islands  studding  the  channels  were  the  lands 
where  his  father  had  spent  the  most  active  part  of  his 
life.  There,  then  —  these  lists  now  made  it  certain 
—  that  event  had  happened  by  which  that  life  had 
been  blighted.  Chicago  and  this  house  here  had  been 
for  his  father  only  the  abode  of  memory  and  retribu- 
tion. North,  there  by  the  meeting  of  the  waters,  was 
the  region  of  the  wrong  which  was  done. 

"  That's  where  I  must  go !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  That's 
where  I  must  go !  " 

Constance  Sherrill,  on  the  following  afternoon,  re- 
ceived a  telephone  call  from  her  father;  he  was  coming 
home  earlier  than  usual,  he  said ;  if  she  had  planned  to 
go  out,  would  she  wait  until  after  he  got  there?  She 
had,  indeed,  just  come  in  and  had  been  intending  to  go 


208  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

out  again  at  once;  but  she  took  off  her  wraps  and 
waited  for  him.  The  afternoon's  mail  was  upon  a 
stand  in  the  hall.  She  turned  it  over,  looking  through 
it  —  invitations,  social  notes.  She  picked  from  among 
them  an  envelope  addressed  to  herself  in  a  firm,  clear 
hand,  which,  unfamiliar  to  her,  still  queerly  startled 
her,  and  tore  it  open. 

Dear  Miss  Sherrill,  she  read, 

I  am  closing  for  the  time  being,  the  house  which, 
for  default  of  other  ownership,  I  must  call  mine.  The 
possibility  that  what  has  occurred  here  would  cause  you 
and  your  father  anxiety  about  me  in  case  I  went  away 
without  telling  you  of  my  intention  is  the  reason  for 
this  note.  But  it  is  not  the  only  reason.  I  could  not 
go  away  without  telling  you  how  deeply  I  appreciate 
the  generosity  and  delicacy  you  and  your  father  have 
shown  to  me  in  spite  of  my  position  here  and  of  the 
fact  that  I  had  no  claim  at  all  upon  you.  I  shall  not 
forget  those  even  though  what  happened  here  last 
night  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  try  to  see  you  again 
or  even  to  write  to  you. 

ALAN  CONEAD. 

She  heard  her  father's  motor  enter  the  drive  and 
ran  to  him  with  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  He's  written  to  you  then,"  he  said,  at  sight  of  it. 

«  Yes." 

"  I  had  a  note  from  him  this  afternoon  at  the  office, 
asking  me  to  hold  in  abeyance  for  the  time  being  the 
trust  that  Ben  had  left  me  and  returning  the  key  of 
the  house  to  me  for  safekeeping." 

"  Has  he  already  gone?  " 

"  I  suppose  so ;  I  don't  know." 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUM     209 

"  We  must  find  out."  She  caught  up  her  wraps  and 
began  to  put  them  on.  Sherrill  hesitated,  then  as- 
sented ;  and  they  went  round  the  block  together  to  the 
Corvet  house.  The  shades,  Constance  saw  as  they  ap- 
proached, were  drawn;  their  rings  at  the  doorbell 
brought  no  response.  Sherrill,  after  a  few  instants' 
hesitation,  took  the  key  from  his  pocket  and  unlocked 
the  door  and  they  went  in.  The  rooms,  she  saw,  were 
all  in  perfect  order ;  summer  covers  had  been  put  upon 
the  furniture;  protecting  cloths  had  been  spread  over 
the  beds  up-stairs.  Her  father  tried  the  water  and  the 
gas,  and  found  they  had  been  turned  off.  After  their 
inspection,  they  came  out  again  at  the  front  door, 
and  her  father  closed  it  with  a  snapping  of  the  spring 
lock. 

Constance,  as  they  walked  away,  turned  and  looked 
back  at  the  old  house,  gloomy  and  dark  among  its 
newer,  fresher-looking  neighbors ;  and  suddenly  she 
choked,  and  her  eyes  grew  wet.  That  feeling  was  not 
for  Uncle  Benny ;  the  drain  of  days  past  had  exhausted 
such  a  surge  of  feeling  for  him.  That  which  she  could 
not  wink  away  was  for  the  boy  who  had  come  to  that 
house  a  few  weeks  ago  and  for  the  man  who  just  now 
had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    THINGS    FROM    COEVET'S    POCKETS 

"Miss  Constance  Sherrill, 

Harbor  Springs,  Michigan." 

THE  address,  in  large  scrawling  letters,  was  writ- 
ten across  the  brown  paper  of  the  package 
which  had  been  brought  from  the  post  office  in 
the  little  resort  village  only  a  few  moments  before. 
The  paper  covered  a  shoe  box,  crushed  and  old,  bear- 
ing the  name  of  S.  Klug,  Dealer  in  Fine  Shoes,  Mani- 
towoc,  Wisconsin.  The  box,  like  the  outside  wrap- 
ping, was  carefully  tied  with  string. 

Constance,  knowing  no  one  in  Manitowoc  and  sur- 
prised at  the  nature  of  the  package,  glanced  at  the 
postmark  on  the  brown  paper  which  she  had  removed; 
it  too  was  stamped  Manitowoc.  She  cut  the  strings 
about  the  box  and  took  off  the  cover.  A  black  and 
brown  dotted  silk  cloth  filled  the  box;  and,  seeing  it, 
Constance  caught  her  breath.  It  was  —  at  least  it 
was  very  like  —  the  muffler  which  Uncle  Benny  used 
to  wear  in  winter.  Remembering  him  most  vividly  as 
she  had  seen  him  last,  that  stormy  afternoon  when  he 
had  wandered  beside  the  lake,  carrying  his  coat  until 
she  made  him  put  it  on,  she  recalled  this  silk  cloth,  or 
one  just  like  it,  in  his  coat  pocket;  she  had  taken  it 
from  his  pocket  and  put  it  around  his  neck. 

She  started  with  trembling  fingers  to  take  it  from 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS     211 

the  box ;  then,  realizing  from  the  weight  of  the  package 
that  the  cloth  was  only  a  wrapping  or,  at  least,  that 
other  things  were  in  the  box,  she  hesitated  and  looked 
around  for  her  mother.  But  her  mother  had  gone  out ; 
her  father  and  Henry  both  were  in  Chicago;  she  was 
alone  in  the  big  summer  "  cottage,"  except  for  serv- 
ants. Constance  picked  up  box  and  wrapping  and  ran 
up  to  her  room.  She  locked  the  door  and  put  the  box 
upon  the  bed;  now  she  lifted  out  the  cloth.  It  was  a 
wrapping,  for  the  heavier  things  came  with  it;  and 
now,  also,  it  revealed  itself  plainly  as  the  scarf  — 
Uncle  Benny's  scarf!  A  paper  fluttered  out  as  she 
began  to  unroll  it  —  a  little  cross-lined  leaf  evidently 
torn  from  a  pocket  memorandum  book.  It  had  been 
folded  and  rolled  up.  She  spread  it  out ;  writing  was 
upon  it,  the  small  irregular  letters  of  Uncle  Benny's 
hand. 

"  Send  to  Alan  Conrad,"  she  read ;  there  followed  a 
Chicago  address  —  the  number  of  Uncle  Benny's  house 
on  Astor  Street.  Below  this  was  another  line: 

"  Better  care  of  Constance  Sherrill  (Miss)."  There 
followed  the  Sherrills'  address  upon  the  Drive.  And  to 
this  was  another  correction: 

"  Not  after  June  12th ;  then  to  Harbor  Springs, 
Mich.  Ask  some  one  of  that ;  be  sure  the  date ;  after 
June  12th." 

Constance,  trembling,  unrolled  the  scarf;  now  coins 
showed  from  a  fold,  next  a  pocket  knife,  ruined  and 
rusty,  next  a  watch  —  a  man's  large  gold  watch  with 
the  case  queerly  pitted  and  worn  completely  through  in 
places,  and  last  a  plain  little  band  of  gold  of  the  size 
for  a  woman's  finger  —  a  wedding  ring.  Constance, 
gasping  and  with  fingers  shaking  so  from  excitement 


21£  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

that  she  could  scarcely  hold  these  objects,  picked  them 
up  and  examined  them  —  the  ring  first. 

It  very  evidently  was,  as  she  had  immediately 
thought,  a  wedding  ring  once  fitted  for  a  finger  only  a 
trifle  less  slender  than  her  own.  One  side  of  the  gold 
band  was  very  much  worn,  not  with  the  sort  of  wear 
which  a  ring  gets  on  a  hand,  but  by  some  different  sort 
of  abrasion.  The  other  side  of  the  band  was  rough- 
ened and  pitted  but  not  so  much  worn;  the  inside  still 
bore  the  traces  of  an  inscription.  "  As  long  as  we 
bo  ...  all  live,"  Constance  could  read,  and  the 
date  «  June  2,  1891." 

It  was  in  January,  1896,  Constance  remembered, 
that  Alan  Conrad  had  been  brought  to  the  people  in 
Kansas ;  he  then  was  "  about  three  years  old."  If  this 
wedding  ring  was  his  mother's,  the  date  would  be  about 
right;  it  was  a  date  probably  something  more  than  a 
year  before  Alan  was  born.  Constance  put  down  the 
ring  and  picked  up  the  watch.  Wherever  it  had  lain, 
it  had  been  less  protected  than  the  ring;  the  covers 
of  the  case  had  been  almost  eroded  away,  and  whatever 
initialing  or  other  marks  there  might  have  been  upon 
the  outside  were  gone.  But  it  was  like  Uncle  Benny's 
watch  —  or  like  one  of  his  watches.  He  had  several, 
she  knew,  presented  to  him  at  various  times —  watches 
almost  always  were  the  testimonials  given  to  seamen 
for  acts  of  sacrifice  and  bravery.  She  remembered 
finding  some  of  those  testimonials  in  a  drawer  at  his 
house  once  where  she  was  rummaging,  when  she  was  a 
child.  One  of  them  had  been  a  watch  just  like  this, 
large  and  heavy.  The  spring  which  operated  the  cover 
would  not  work,  but  Constance  forced  the  cover  open. 

There,  inside  the  cover  as  she  had  thought  it  would 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS     213 

be,  was  engraved  writing.  Sand  had  seeped  into  the 
case;  the  inscription  was  obliterated  in  part. 

"  For  his  courage  and  skill  in  seam  .  .  .  master  of 
.  .  .  which  he  brought  to  the  rescue  of  the  passengers 
and  crew  of  the  steamer  Winnebago  foundering  .  .  . 
Point,  Lake  Erie,  November  26th,  1890,  this  watch  is 
donated  by  the  Buffalo  Merchants'  Exchange." 

Uncle  Benny's  name,  evidently,  had  been  engraved 
upon  the  outside.  Constance  could  not  particularly 
remember  the  rescue  of  the  people  of  the  Winnebago; 
1890  was  years  before  she  was  born,  and  Uncle  Benny 
did  not  tell  her  that  sort  of  thing  about  himself. 

The  watch,  she  saw  now,  must  have  lain  in  water, 
for  the  hands  under  the  crystal  were  rusted  away  and 
the  face  was  all  streaked  and  cracked.  She  opened 
the  back  of  the  watch  and  exposed  the  works ;  they 
too  were  rusted  and  filled  with  sand.  Constance  left 
the  watch  open  and,  shivering  a  little,  she  gently  laid 
it  down  upon  her  bed.  The  pocket  knife  had  no  dis- 
tinguishing mark  of  any  sort;  it  was  just  a  man's  or- 
dinary knife  with  the  steel  turned  to  rust  and  with 
sand  in  it  too.  The  coins  were  abraded  and  pitted 
discs  —  a  silver  dollar,  a  half  dollar  and  three  quar- 
ters, not  so  much  abraded,  three  nickels,  and  two  pen- 
nies. 

Constance  choked,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
These  things  —  plainly  they  were  the  things  found  in 
Uncle  Benny's  pockets  —  corroborated  only  too  fully 
what  Wassaquam  believed  and  what  her  father  had 
been  coming  to  believe . —  that  Uncle  Benny  was  dead. 
The  muffler  and  the  scrap  of  paper  had  not  been  in 
water  or  in  sand.  The  paper  was  written  in  pencil ;  it 
had  not  even  been  moistened  or  it  would  have  blurred. 


214  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

There  was  nothing  upon  it  to  tell  how  long  ago  it  had 
been  written ;  but  it  had  been  written  certainly  before 
June  twelfth.  "  After  June  12th,"  it  said. 

That  day  was  August  the  eighteenth. 

It  was  seven  months  since  Uncle  Benny  had  gone 
away.  After  his  strange  interview  with  her  that  day 
and  his  going  home,  had  Uncle  Benny  gone  out  di- 
rectly to  his  death?  There  was  nothing  to  show  that 
he  had  not;  the  watch  and  coins  must  have  lain  for 
many  weeks,  for  months,  in  water  and  in  sand  to  be- 
come eroded  in  this  way.  But,  aside  from  this,  there 
was  nothing  that  could  be  inferred  regarding  the  time 
or  place  of  Uncle  Benny's  death.  That  the  package 
had  been  mailed  from  Manitowoc  meant  nothing  defi- 
nite. Some  one  —  Constance  could  not  Know  whom 
—  had  had  the  muffler  and  the  scrawled  leaf  of  direc- 
tions; later,  after  lying  in  water  and  in  sand,  the 
things  which  were  to  be  "  sent "  had  come  to  that  some 
one's  hand.  Most  probably  this  some  one  had  been 
one  who  was  going  about  on  ships ;  when  his  ship  had 
touched  at  Manitowoc,  he  had  executed  his  charge. 

Constance  left  the  articles  upon  the  bed  and  threw 
the  window  more  widely  open.  She  trembled  and  felt 
stirred  and  faint,  as  she  leaned  against  the  window, 
breathing  deeply  the  warm  air,  full  of  life  and  with  the 
scent  of  the  evergreen  trees  about  the  house. 

The  "  cottage  "  of  some  twenty  rooms  stood  among 
the  pines  and  hemlocks  interspersed  with  hardwood  on 
"  the  Point,"  where  were  the  great  fine  summer  homes 
of  the  wealthier  "  resorters."  White,  narrow  roads, 
just  wide  enough  for  two  automobiles  to  pass  abreast, 
wound  like  a  labyrinth  among  the  tree  trunks ;  and  the 
sound  of  the  wind  among  the  pine  needles  was  mingled 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS      215 

with  the  soft  lapping  of  water.  To  south  and  east 
from  her  stretched  Little  Traverse  —  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  bits  of  water  of  the  lakes ;  across  from  her, 
beyond  the  wrinkling  water  of  the  bay,  the  larger 
town  —  Petoskey  —  with  its  hilly  streets  pitching 
down  steeply  to  the  water's  edge  and  the  docks,  and 
with  its  great  resort  hotels,  was  plainly  visible.  To 
westward,  from  the  white  life-saving  station  and  the 
lighthouse,  the  point  ran  out  in  shingle,  bone  white, 
outcropping  above  the  water;  then  for  miles  away  the 
shallow  water  was  treacherous  green  and  white  to 
where  at  the  north,  around  the  bend  of  the  shore, 
it  deepened  and  grew  blue  again,  and  a  single  white 
tower  —  Ile-aux-Galets  Light  —  kept  watch  above  it. 
This  was  Uncle  Benny's  country.  Here,  twenty-five 
years  before,  he  had  first  met  Henry,  whose  birthplace 
—  a  farm,  deserted  now  —  was  only  a  few  miles  back 
among  the  hills.  Here,  before  that,  Uncle  Benny  had 
been  a  young  man,  active,  vigorous,  ambitious.  He 
had  loved  this  country  for  itself  and  for  its  traditions, 
its  Indian  legends  and  fantastic  stories.  Half  her  own 
love  for  it  —  and,  since  her  childhood,  it  had  been  to 
her  a  region  of  delight  —  was  due  to  him  and  to  the 
things  he  had  told  her  about  it.  Distinct  and  definite 
memories  of  that  companionship  came  to  her.  This 
little  bay,  which  had  become  now  for  the  most  part 
only  a  summer  playground  for  such  as  she,  had  been 
once  a  place  where  he  and  other  men  had  struggled 
to  grow  rich  swiftly ;  he  had  outlined  for  her  the  ruined 
lumber  docks  and  pointed  out  to  her  the  locations  of 
the  dismantled  sawmills.  It  was  he  who  had  told  her 
the  names  of  the  freighters  passing  far  out,  and  the 
names  of  the  lighthouses,  and  something  about  each. 


216  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

He  had  told  her  too  about  the  Indians.  She  remem- 
bered one  starry  night  when  he  had  pointed  out  to  her 
in  the  sky  the  Indian  "Way  of  Ghosts,"  the  Milky 
Way,  along  which,  by  ancient  Indian  belief,  the  souls 
of  Indians  traveled  up  to  heaven ;  and  how,  later,  lying 
on  the  recessed  seat  beside  the  fireplace  where  she  could 
touch  the  dogs  upon  the  hearth,  he  had  pointed  out  to 
her  through  the  window  the  Indian  "  Way  of  Dogs  " 
among  the  constellations,  by  which  the  dogs  too  could 
make  that  journey.  It  was  he  who  had  told  her  about 
Michabou  and  the  animals;  and  he  had  been  the  first 
to  tell  her  of  the  Drum. 

The  disgrace,  unhappiness,  the  threat  of  something 
worse,  which  must  have  made  death  a  relief  to  Uncle 
Benny,  she  had  seen  passed  on  now  to  Alan.  What 
more  had  come  to  Alan  since  she  had  last  heard  of  him? 
Some  terrible  substance  to  his  fancies  which  would 
assail  him  again  as  she  had  seen  him  assailed  after 
Luke  had  come?  Might  another  attack  have  been 
made  upon  him  similar  to  that  which  he  had  met  in 
Chicago  ? 

Word  had  reached  her  father  through  shipping 
circles  in  May  and  again  in  July  which  told  of  inquiries 
regarding  Uncle  Benny  which  made  her  and  her  father 
believe  that  Alan  was  searching  for  his  father  upon 
the  lakes.  Now  these  articles  which  had  arrived  made 
plain  to  her  that  he  would  never  find  Uncle  Benny ;  he 
would  learn,  through  others  or  through  themselves, 
that  Uncle  Benny  was  dead.  Would  he  believe  then 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  chance  of  learning  what 
his  father  had  done?  Would  he  remain  away  because 
of  that,  not  letting  her  see  or  hear  from  him  again? 

She  went  back  and  picked  up   the  wedding  ring. 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS      217 

The  thought  which  had  come  to  her  that  this  was 
Alan's  mother's  wedding  ring,  had  fastened  itself  upon 
her  with  a  sense  of  certainty.  It  defended  that  un- 
known mother ;  it  freed  her,  at  least,  from  the  stigma 
which  Constance's  own  mother  had  been  so  ready  to 
cast.  Constance  could  not  yet  begin  to  place  Uncle 
Benny  in  relation  to  that  ring;  but  she  was  beginning 
to  be  able  to  think  of  Alan  and  his  mother.  She  held 
the  little  band  of  gold  very  tenderly  in  her  hand;  she 
was  glad  that,  as  the  accusation  against  his  mother 
had  come  through  her  people,  she  could  tell  him  soon 
of  this.  She  could  not  send  the  ring  to  him,  not 
knowing  where  he  was;  that  was  too  much  risk. 
But  she  could  ask  him  to  come  to  her ;  this  gave  that 
right. 

She  sat  thoughtful  for  several  minutes,  the  ring 
clasped  warmly  in  her  hand ;  then  she  went  to  her  desk 
and  wrote: 

Mr.  John  Welton, 

Blue  Rapids,  Kansas. 
Dear  Mr.  Welton : 

It  is  possible  that  Alan  Conrad  has  mentioned  me  — 
or  at  least  told  you  of  my  father  —  in  connection  with 
his  stay  in  Chicago.  After  Alan  left  Chicago,  my 
father  wrote,  twice  to  his  Blue  Rapids  address,  but 
evidently  he  had  instructed  the  postmaster  there  to 
forward  his  mail  and  had  not  made  any  change  in  those 
instructions,  for  the  letters  were  returned  to  Alan's  ad- 
dress and  in  that  way  came  back  to  us.  We  did  not 
like  to  press  inquiries  further  than  that,  as  of  course 
he  could  have  communicated  with  us  if  he  had  not  felt 
that  there  was  some  reason  for  not  doing  so.  Now, 
however,  something  of  such  supreme  importance  to  him 


218  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

has  come  to  us  that  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  get  word 
to  him  at  once.  If  you  can  tell  me  any  address  at 
which  he  can  be  reached  by  telegraph  or  mail  —  or 
where  a  messenger  can  find  him  —  it  will  oblige  us  very 
much  and  will  be  to  his  interest. 

She  hesitated,  about  to  sign  it ;  then,  impulsively,  she 
added : 

I  trust  you  know  that  we  have  Alan's  interest  at 
heart  and  that  you  can  safely  tell  us  anything  you  may 
know  as  to  where  he  is  or  what  he  may  be  doing.  We 
all  liked  him  here  so  very  much.  .  .  . 

She  signed  her  name.  There  were  still  two  other 
letters  to  write.  Only  the  handwriting  of  the  address 
upon  the  package,  the  Manitowoc  postmark  and  the 
shoe  box  furnished  clue  to  the  sender  of  the  ring  and 
the  watch  and  the  other  things.  Constance  herself 
could  not  trace  those  clues,  but  Henry  or  her  father 
could.  She  wrote  to  both  of  them,  therefore,  describ- 
ing the  articles  which  had  come  and  relating  what  she 
had  done.  Then  she  rang  for  a  servant  and  sent  the 
letters  to  the  post.  They  were  in  time  to  catch  the 
"  dummy "  train  around  the  bay  and,  at  Petoskey, 
would  get  into  the  afternoon  mail.  The  two  for  Chi- 
cago would  be  delivered  early  the  next  morning,  so  she 
could  expect  replies  from  Henry  and  her  father  on 
the  second  day ;  the  letter  to  Kansas,  of  course,  would 
take  much  longer  than  that. 

But  the  next  noon  she  received  a  wire  from  Henry 
that  he  was  "  coming  up."  It  did  not  surprise  her,  as 
she  had  expected  him  the  end  of  the  week. 

Late  that  evening,  she  sat  with  her  mother  on  the 
wide,  screened  veranda.  The  breeze  among  the  pines 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS     219 

had  died  away ;  the  lake  was  calm.  A  half  moon  hung 
midway  in  the  sky,  making  plain  the  hills  about  the 
bay  and  casting  a  broadening  way  of  silver  on  the  mir- 
ror surface  of  the  water.  The  lights  of  some  boat 
turning  in  between  the  points  and  moving  swiftly 
caught  her  attention.  As  it  entered  the  path  of  the 
moonlight,  its  look  was  so  like  that  of  Henry's  power 
yacht  that  she  arose.  She  had  not  expected  him  until 
morning;  but  now  the  boat  was  so  near  that  she  could 
no  longer  doubt  that  it  was  his.  He  must  have  started 
within  an  hour  of  the  receipt  of  her  letter  and  had 
been  forcing  his  engines  to  their  fastest  all  the  way 
up. 

He  had  done  that  partly,  perhaps,  for  the  sheer 
sport  of  speed;  but  partly  also  for  the  sake  of  being 
sooner  with  her.  It  was  his  way,  as  soon  as  he  had 
decided  to  leave  business  again  and  go  to  her,  to  arrive 
as  soon  as  possible;  that  had  been  his  way  recently, 
particularly.  So  the  sight  of  the  yacht  stirred  her 
warmly  and  she  watched  while  it  ran  in  close,  stopped 
and  instantly  dropped  a  dingey  from  the  davits.  She 
saw  Henry  in  the  stern  of  the  little  boat;  it  disap- 
peared in  the  shadow  of  a  pier  .  .  .  she  heard,  pres- 
ently, the  gravel  of  the  walk  crunch  under  his  quick 
steps,  and  then  she  saw  him  in  the  moonlight  among 
the  trees.  The  impetuousness,  almost  the  violence  of 
his  hurry  to  reach  her,  sent  its  thrill  through  her. 
She  went  down  on  the  path  to  meet  him. 

"  How  quickly  you  came ! " 

"  You  let  yourself  think  you  needed  me,  Connie !  " 

« I  did.  .  .  " 

He  had  caught  her  hand  in  his  and  he  held  it  while 
he  brought  her  to  the  porch  and  exchanged  greetings 


220  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

with  her  mother.  Then  he  led  her  on  past  and  into 
the  house. 

When  she  saw  his  face,  in  the  light,  there  were  signs 
of  strain  in  it;  she  could  feel  strain  now  in  his  fingers 
which  held  hers  strongly  but  tensely  too. 

"You're  tired,  Henry!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  It's  been  rotten  hot  in  Chi- 
cago; then  I  guess  I  was  mentally  stoking  all  the  way 
up  here,  Connie.  When  I  got  started,  I  wanted  to  see 
you  to-night  .  .  .  but  first,  where  are  the  things  you 
wanted  me  to  see?  " 

She  ran  up-stairs  and  brought  them  down  to  him. 
Her  hands  were  shaking  now  as  she  gave  them  to  him ; 
she  could  not  exactly  understand  why;  but  her  tremor 
increased  as  she  saw  his  big  hands  fumbling  as  he  un- 
wrapped the  muffler  and  shook  out  the  things  it  en- 
closed. He  took  them  up  one  by  one  and  looked  at 
them,  as  she  had  done.  His  fingers  were  steady  now 
but  only  by  mastering  of  control,  the  effort  for  which 
amazed  her. 

He  had  the  watch  in  his  hands. 

"  The  inscription  is  inside  the  front,"  she  said. 

She  pried  the  cover  open  again  and  read,  with  him, 
the  words  engraved  within. 

" '  As  master  of  .  .  .'  What  ship  was  he  master  of 
then,  Henry,  and  how  did  he  rescue  the  Winnebago's 
people?  " 

"  He  never  talked  to  me  about  things  like  that,  Con- 
nie. This  is  all?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  nothing  since  to  show  who  sent  them  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman  will  send  some  one 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS      221 

to  Manitowoc  to  make  inquiries."  Henry  put  the 
things  back  in  the  box.  "But  of  course,  this  is  the 
end  of  Benjamin  Corvet." 

"  Of  course,"  Constance  said.  She  was  shaking 
again  and,  without  willing  it,  she  withdrew  a  little  from 
Henry.  He  caught  her  hand  again  and  drew  her  back 
toward  him.  His  hand  was  quite  steady. 

"  You  know  why  I  came  to  you  as  quick  as  I  could? 
You  know  why  I  —  why  my  mind  was  behind  every 
thrust  of  the  engines  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  don't  ?     Oh,  you  know ;  you  must  know  now !  " 

"  Yes,  Henry,"  she  said. 

"  I've  been  patient,  Connie.  Till  I  got  your  letter 
telling  me  this  about  Ben,  I'd  waited  for  your  sake  — 
for  our  sakes  —  though  it  seemed  at  times  it  was  impos- 
sible. You  haven't  known  quite  what's  been  the  matter 
between  us  these  last  months,  little  girl ;  but  I've  known. 
We've  been  engaged;  but  that's  about  all  there's  been 
to  it.  Don't  think  I  make  little  of  that;  you  know 
what  I  mean.  You've  been  mine;  but  —  but  you 
haven't  let  me  realize  it,  you  see.  And  I've  been 
patient,  for  I  knew  the  reason.  It  was  Ben  poisoning 
your  mind  against  me." 

"No!     No,  Henry!" 

"  You've  denied  it ;  I've  recognized  that  you've  denied 
it,  not  only  to  me  and  to  your  people  but  to  yourself. 
I,  of  course,  knew,  as  I  know  that  I  am  here  with  your 
hand  in  mine,  and  as  we  will  stand  before  the  altar 
together,  that  he  had  no  cause  to  speak  against  me. 
I've  waited,  Connie,  to  give  him  a  chance  to  say  to  you 
what  he  had  to  say;  I  wanted  you  to  hear  it  before 
making  you  wholly  mine.  But  now  there's  no  need  to 


222  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

wait  any  longer,  you  and  I.  Ben's  gone,  never  to  come 
back.  I  was  sure  of  that  by  what  you  wrote  me,  so 
this  time  when  I  started  to  you  I  brought  with  me  — 
this." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  a  ring  of  plain 
gold ;  he  held  it  before  her  so  that  she  could  see  within 
it  her  own  initials  and  his  and  a  blank  left  for  the 
date.  Her  gaze  went  from  it  for  an  instant  to  the  box 
where  he  had  put  back  the  other  ring  —  Alan's  moth- 
er's. Feeling  for  her  long  ago  gazing  thus,  as  she  must 
have,  at  that  ring,  held  her  for  a  moment.  Was  it 
because  of  that  that  Constance  found  herself  cold 
now? 

"  You  mean  you  want  me  to  marry  you  —  at  once, 
Henry?" 

He  drew  her  to  him  powerfully ;  she  felt  him  warm, 
almost  rough  with  passions.  Since  that  day  when,  in 
Alan  Conrad's  presence,  he  had  grasped  and  kissed 
her,  she  had  not  let  him  "  realize  "  their  engagement, 
as  he  had  put  it. 

"Why  not?"  he  turned  her  face  up  to  his  now. 
"  Your  mother's  here ;  your  father  will  follow  soon ;  or, 
if  you  will,  we'll  run  away  —  Constance !  You've  kept 
me  off  so  long!  You  don't  believe  there's  anything 
against  me,  dear?  Do  you?  Do  you? 

"  No ;  no !     Of  course  not !  " 

"  Then  we're  going  to  be  married.  .  .  .  We're  going 
to  be  married,  aren't  we?  Aren't  we,  Constance?" 

"  Yes ;  yes,  of  course." 

"  Right  away,  we'll  have  it  then ;  up  here ;  now  !  " 

"  No ;  not  now,  Henry.     Not  up  here !  " 

"Not  here?     Why  not?" 

She  could  give  no  answer.     He  held  her  and  com- 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS      223 

manded  her  again;  only  when  he  frightened  her,  he 
ceased. 

"Why  must  it  be  at  once,  Henry?  I  don't  under- 
stand !  " 

"  It's  not  must,  dear,"  he  denied.  "  It's  just  that  I 
want  you  so !  " 

When  would  it  be,  he  demanded  then ;  before  spring, 
she  promised  at  last.  But  that  was  all  he  could  make 
her  say.  And  so  he  let  her  go. 

The  next  evening,  in  the  moonlight,  she  drove  him 
to  Petoskey.  He  had  messages  to  send  and  preferred 
to  trust  the  telegraph  office  in  the  larger  town.  Re- 
turning they  swung  out  along  the  country  roads.  The 
night  was  cool  here  on  the  hills,  under  the  stars;  the 
fan-shaped  glare  from  their  headlights,  blurring  the 
radiance  of  the  moon,  sent  dancing  before  them  swiftly- 
changing,  distorted  shadows  of  the  dusty  bushes  beside 
the  road.  Topping  a  rise,  they  came  suddenly  upon 
his  birthplace.  She  had  not  designed  coming  to  that 
place,  but  she  had  taken  a  turn  at  his  direction,  and 
now  he  asked  her  to  stop  the  car.  He  got  out  and 
paced  about,  calling  to  her  and  pointing  out  the  desir- 
ableness of  the  spot  as  the  site  for  their  country  home. 
She  sat  in  the  motor,  watching  him  and  calling  back  to 
him. 

The  house  was  small,  log  built,  the  chinks  between 
the  logs  stopped  with  clay.  Across  the  road  from  it, 
the  silver  bark  of  the  birch  trees  gleamed  white  among 
the  black-barked  timber.  Smells  of  rank  vegetation 
came  to  her  from  these  woods  and  from  the  weed-grown 
fields  about  and  beyond  the  house.  There  had  been  a 
small  garden  beside  the  house  once;  now  neglected 
strawberry  vines  ran  riot  among  the  weed  stems,  and  a 


224  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

clump  of  sunflowers  stood  with  hanging,  full-blown 
heads  under  the  August  moon. 

She  gazed  proudly  at  Henry's  strong,  well  propor- 
tioned figure  moving  about  in  the  moonlight,  and  she 
was  glad  to  think  that  a  boy  from  this  house  had 
become  the  man  that  he  was.  But  when  she  tried  to 
think  of  him  as  a  child  here,  her  mind  somehow  showed 
her  Alan  playing  about  the  sunflowers ;  and  the  place 
was  not  here ;  it  was  the  brown,  Kansas  prairie  of  which 
he  had  told  her. 

"  Sunflower  houses,"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"  Sunflower  houses.  They  used  to  cut  the  stalks  and 
build  shacks  with  them." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  Henry  said ;  he  had  come  back  near 
her. 

The  warm  blood  rushed  to  her  face.  "  Nothing," 
she  said,  a  little  ashamed.  She  opened  the  door  beside 
her.  "  Come ;  we'll  go  back  home  now." 

Coming  from  that  poor  little  place,  and  having  made 
of  himself  what  he  had,  Henry  was  such  a  man  as  she 
would  be  ever  proud  to  have  for  a  husband ;  there  was 
no  man  whom  she  had  known  who  had  proved  himself 
as  much  a  man  as  he.  Yet  now,  as  she  returned  to  the 
point,  she  was  thinking  of  this  lake  country  not  only 
as  Henry's  land  but  as  Alan  Conrad's  too.  In  some 
such  place  he  also  had  been  born  —  born  by  the  mother 
whose  ring  waited  him  in  the  box  in  her  room. 

Alan,  upon  the  morning  of  the  second  of  these  days, 
was  driving  northward  along  the  long,  sandy  penin- 
sula which  separates  the  blue  waters  of  Grand 
Traverse  from  Lake  Michigan;  and,  thinking  of  her, 
he  knew  that  she  was  near.  He  not  only  had  remem- 
bered that  she  would  be  north  at  Harbor  Point  this 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS     225 

month ;  he  had  seen  in  one  of  the  Petoskey  papers  that 
she  and  her  mother  were  at  the  Sherrill  summer  home. 
His  business  now  was  taking  him  nearer  them  than  he 
had  been  at  any  time  before;  and,  if  he  wished  to 
weaken,  he  might  convince  himself  that  he  might  learn 
from  her  circumstances  which  would  aid  him  in  his  task. 
But  he  was  not  going  to  her  for  help ;  that  was  follow- 
ing in  his  father's  footsteps.  When  he  knew  every- 
thing, then  —  not  till  then  —  he  could  go  to  her;  for 
then  he  would  know  exactly  what  was  upon  him  and 
what  he  should  do. 

His  visits  to  the  people  named  on  those  sheets  writ- 
ten by  his  father  had  been  confusing  at  first;  he  had 
had  great  difficulty  in  tracing  some  of  them  at  all ;  and, 
afterwards,  he  could  uncover  no  certain  connection 
either  between  them  and  Benjamin  Corvet  or  between 
themselves.  But  recently,  he  had  been  succeeding  bet- 
ter in  this  latter. 

He  had  seen  —  he  reckoned  them  over  again  —  four- 
teen of  the  twenty-one  named  originally  on  Benjamin 
Corvet's  lists ;  that  is,  he  had  seen  either  the  individual 
originally  named,  or  the  surviving  relative  written  in 
below  the  name  crossed  off.  He  had  found  that  the 
crossing  out  of  the  name  meant  that  the  person  was 
dead,  except  in  the  case  of  two  who  had  left  the  country 
and  whose  whereabouts  were  as  unknown  to  their  pres- 
ent relatives  as  they  had  been  to  Benjamin  Corvet,  and 
the  case  of  one  other,  who  was  in  an  insane  asylum. 

He  had  found  that  no  one  of  the  persons  whom  he 
saw  had  known  Benjamin  Corvet  personally;  many  of 
them  did  not  know  him  at  all,  the  others  knew  him  only 
as  a  name.  But,  when  Alan  proceeded,  always  there 
was  one  connotation  with  each  of  the  original  names; 


226  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

always  one  circumstance  bound  all  together.  When  he 
had  established  that  circumstance  as  influencing  the 
fortunes  of  the  first  two  on  his  lists,  he  had  said  to  him- 
self, as  the  blood  pricked  queerly  under  the  skin,  that 
the  fact  might  be  a  mere  coincidence.  When  he  estab- 
lished it  also  as  affecting  the  fate  of  the  third  and  of 
the  fourth  and  of  the  fifth,  such  explanation  no  longer 
sufficed ;  and  he  found  it  in  common  to  all  fourteen, 
sometimes  as  the  deciding  factor  of  their  fate,  sometimes 
as  only  slightly  affecting  them,  but  always  it  was  there. 

In  how  many  different  ways,  in  what  strange,  diverse 
manifestations  that  single  circumstance  had  spread  to 
thole  people  whom  Alan  had  interviewed!  No  two  of 
them  had  been  affected  alike,  he  reckoned,  as  he  went 
over  his  notes  of  them.  Now  he  was  going  to  trace 
those  consequences  to  another.  To  what  sort  of  place 
would  it  bring  him  to-day  and  what  would  he  find  there? 
He  knew  only  that  it  would  be  quite  distinct  from  the 
rest. 

The  driver  beside  whom  he  sat  on  the  front  seat  of 
the  little  automobile  was  an  Indian ;  an  Indian  woman 
and  two  round-faced  silent  children  occupied  the  seat 
behind.  He  had  met  these  people  in  the  early  morn- 
ing on  the  road,  bound,  he  discovered,  to  the  annual 
camp  meeting  of  the  Methodist  Indians  at  Northport. 
They  were  going  his  way,  and  they  knew  the  man  of 
whom  he  was  in  search ;  so  he  had  hired  a  ride  of  them. 
The  region  through  which  they  were  traveling  now  was 
of  farms,  but  interspersed  with  desolate,  waste  fields 
where  blackened  stumps  and  rotting  windfalls  remained 
after  the  work  of  the  lumberers.  The  hills  and  many 
of  the  hollows  were  wooded;  there  were  even  places 
where  lumbering  was  still  going  on.  To  his  left  across 


THINGS  FROM  CORVET'S  POCKETS      227 

the  water,  the  twin  Manitous  broke  the  horizon,  high  and 
round  and  blue  with  haze.  To  his  right,  from  the 
higher  hilltops,  he  caught  glimpses  of  Grand  Traverse 
and  of  the  shores  to  the  north,  rising  higher,  dimmer, 
and  more  blue,  where  they  broke  for  Little  Traverse 
and  where  Constance  Sherrill  was,  two  hours  away 
across  the  water;  but  he  had  shut  his  mind  to  that 
thought. 

The  driver  turned  now  into  a  rougher  road,  bearing 
more  to  the  east. 

They  passed  people  more  frequently  now  —  groups 
in  farm  wagons,  or  groups  or  single  individuals,  walking 
beside  the  road.  All  were  going  in  the  same  direction 
as  themselves,  and  nearly  all  were  Indians,  drab  dressed 
figures  attired  obviously  in  their  best  clothes.  Some 
walked  barefoot,  carrying  new  shoes  in  their  hands, 
evidently  to  preserve  them  from  the  dust.  They  sa- 
luted gravely  Alan's  driver,  who  returned  their  salutes 
—  "B'jou!"  "B'jou!" 

Traveling  eastward,  they  had  lost  sight  of  Lake 
Michigan ;  and  suddenly  the  wrinkled  blueness  of  Grand 
Traverse  appeared  quite  close  to  them.  The  driver 
turned  aside  from  the  road  across  a  cleared  field  where 
ruts  showed  the  passing  of  many  previous  vehicles ; 
crossing  this,  they  entered  the  woods.  Little  fires  for 
cooking  burned  all  about  them,  and  nearer  were  parked 
an  immense  number  of  farm  wagons  and  buggies,  with 
horses  unharnessed  and  munching  grain.  Alan's  guide 
found  a  place  among  these  for  his  automobile,  and  they 
got  out  and  went  forward  on  foot.  All  about  them, 
seated  upon  the  moss  or  walking  about,  were  Indians, 
family  groups  among  which  children  played.  A  plat- 
form had  been  built  under  the  trees ;  on  it  some  thirty 


228  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Indians,  all  men,  sat  in  straight-backed  chairs ;  in  front 
of  and  to  the  sides  of  the  platform,  an  audience  of  sev- 
eral hundred  occupied  benches,  and  around  the  borders 
of  the  meeting  others  were  gathered,  merely  observing. 
A  very  old  Indian,  with  inordinately  wrinkled  skin  and 
dressed  in  a  frock  coat,  was  addressing  these  people 
from  the  platform  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

Alan  halted  beside  his  guide.  He  saw  among  the 
drab-clad  figures  looking  on,  the  brighter  dresses  and 
sport  coats  of  summer  visitors  who  had  come  to  watch. 
The  figure  of  a  girl  among  these  caught  his  attention, 
and  he  started ;  then  swiftly  he  told  himself  that  it  was 
only  his  thinking  of  Constance  Sherrill  that  made  him 
believe  this  was  she.  But  now  she  had  seen  him;  she 
paled,  then  as  quickly  flushed,  and  leaving  the  group 
she  had  been  with,  came  toward  him. 

He  had  no  choice  now  whether  he  would  avoid  her 
or  not ;  and  his  happiness  at  seeing  her  held  him  stupid, 
watching  her.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright  and  with 
something  more  than  friendly  greeting;  there  was  hap- 
piness in  them  too.  His  throat  shut  together  as  he 
recognized  this,  and  his  hand  closed  warmly  over  the 
small,  trembling  hand  which  she  put  out  to  him.  All 
his  conscious  thought  was  lost  for  the  moment  in  the 
mere  realization  of  her  presence;  he  stood,  holding  her 
hand,  oblivious  that  there  were  people  looking;  she 
too  seemed  careless  of  that.  Then  she  whitened  again 
and  withdrew  her  hand;  she  seemed  slightly  confused. 
He  was  confused  as  well;  it  was  not  like  this  that  he 
had  meant  to  greet  her;  he  caught  himself  together. 

Cap  in  hand,  he  stood  beside  her,  trying  to  look  and 
to  feel  as  any  ordinary  acquaintance  of  hers  would 
have  looked. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    OWNER    OF    THE    WATCH 

they  got  word  to  you!"  Constance  ex- 
claimed;  she  seemed  still  confused.  "Oh, 
no  —  of  course  they  couldn't  have  done  that! 
They've  hardly  got  my  letter  yet." 

"  Your  letter?  "  Alan  asked. 

"  I  wrote  to  Blue  Rapids,"  she  explained.  "  Some 
things  came  —  they  were  sent  to  me.  Some  things  of 
Uncle  Benny's  which  were  meant  for  you  instead  of 
me." 

"  You  mean  you've  heard  from  him  ?  " 

"  No  —  not  that." 

"  What  things,  Miss  Sherrill?  " 

"  A  watch  of  his  and  some  coins  and —  a  ring." 
She  did  not  explain  the  significance  of  those  things,  and 
he  could  not  tell  from  her  mere  enumeration  of  them 
and  without  seeing  them  that  they  furnished  proof  that 
his  father  was  dead.  She  could  not  inform  him  of  that, 
she  felt,  just  here  and  now. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  later.  You  —  you  were 
coming  to  Harbor  Point  to  see  us  ?  " 

He  colored.  "  I'm  afraid  not.  I  got  as  near  as  this 
to  you  because  there  is  a  man  —  an  Indian  —  I  have 
to  see." 

"An  Indian?  What  is  his  name?  You  see,  I  know 
quite  a  lot  of  them." 


230  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  Jo  Papo." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  No ;  I  don't  know  him." 

She  had  drawn  him  a  little  away  from  the  crowd 
about  the  meeting.  His  blood  was  beating  hard  with 
recognition  of  her  manner  toward  him.  Whatever  he 
was,  whatever  the  disgrace  might  be  that  his  father  had 
left  to  him,  she  was  still  resolute  to  share  in  it.  He 
had  known  she  would  be  so.  She  found  a  spot  where 
the  moss  was  covered  with  dry  pine  needles  and  sat 
down  upon  the  ground. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  invited ;  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
what  you  have  been  doing." 

"  I've  been  on  the  boats."  He  dropped  down  upon 
the  moss  beside  her.  "  It's  a  —  wonderful  business, 
Miss  Sherrill;  I'll  never  be  able  to  go  away  from  the 
water  again.  I've  been  working  rather  hard  at  my 
new  profession  —  studying  it,  I  mean.  Until  yester- 
day I  was  a  not  very  highly  honored  member  of  the 
crew  of  the  package  freighter  Oscoda;  I  left  her  at 
Frankfort  and  came  up  here." 

"Is  Wassaquam  with  you?" 

"  He  wasn't  on  the  Oscoda;  but  he  was  with  me  at 
first.  Now,  I  believe,  he  has  gone  back  to  his  own 
people  —  to  Middle  Village." 

"  You  mean  you've  been  looking  for  Mr.  Corvet  in 
that  way?" 

"  Not  exactly  that."  He  hesitated ;  but  he  could  see 
no  reason  for  not  telling  what  he  had  been  doing.  He 
had  not  so  much  hidden  from  her  and  her  father  what 
he  had  found  in  Benjamin  Corvet's  house;  rather,  he 
had  refrained  from  mentioning  it  in  his  notes  to  them 
when  he  left  Chicago  because  he  had  thought  that  the 
lists  would  lead  to  an  immediate  explanation ;  they  had 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         231 

not  led  to  that,  but  only  to  a  suggestion,  indefinite  as 
jet.  He  had  known  that,  if  his  search  finally  developed 
nothing  more  than  it  had,  he  must  at  last  consult 
Sherrill  and  get  Sherrill's  aid. 

"  We  found  some  writing,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  said, 
"  in  the  house  on  Astor  Street  that  night  after  Luke 
came." 

"  What  writing?  " 

He  took  the  lists  from  his  pocket  and  showed  them 
to  her.  She  separated  and  looked  through  the  sheets 
and  read  the  names  written  in  the  same  hand  that  had 
written  the  directions  upon  the  slip  of  paper  that  came 
to  her  four  days  before,  with  the  things  from  Uncle 
Benny's  pockets. 

"  My  father  had  kept  these  very  secretly,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  He  had  them  hidden.  Wassaquam  knew 
where  they  were,  and  that  night  after  Luke  was  dead 
and  you  had  gone  home,  he  gave  them  to  me.'* 

"After  I  had  gone  home?  Henry  went  back  to  see 
you  that  night;  he  had  said  he  was  going  back,  and 
afterwards  I  asked  him,  and  he  told  me  he  had  seen  you 
again.  Did  you  show  him  these?  " 

"  He  saw  them  —  yes." 

"  He  was  there  when  Wassaquam  showed  you  where 
they  were?  " 

«  yes." 

A  little  line  deepened  between  her  brows,  and  she  sat 
thoughtful. 

"  So  you  have  been  going  about  seeing  these  people," 
she  said.  "  What  have  you  found  out  ?  " 

"  Nothing  definite  at  all.  None  of  them  knew  my 
father ;  they  were  only  amazed  to  find  that  any  one  in 
Chicago  had  known  their  names." 


232  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

She  got  up  suddenly.  "  You  don't  mind  if  I  am  with 
you  when  you  talk  with  this  Indian  ?  " 

He  arose  and  looked  around  for  the  guide  who  had 
brought  him.  His  guide  had  been  standing  near,  evi- 
dently waiting  until  Alan's  attention  was  turned  his 
way;  he  gestured  now  toward  a  man,  a  woman,  and 
several  children  who  were  lunching,  seated  about  a 
basket  on  the  ground.  The  man  —  thin,  patient  and 
of  medium  size  —  was  of  the  indefinite  age  of  the  Indian, 
neither  young  nor  yet  old.  It  was  evident  that  life 
had  been  hard  for  the  man ;  he  looked  worn  and  under- 
nourished; his  clothing  was  the  cast-off  suit  of  some 
one  much  larger  which  had  been  inexpertly  altered  to 
make  it  fit  him.  As  Alan  and  Constance  approached 
them,  the  group  turned  on  them  their  dark,  inexpres- 
sive eyes,  and  the  woman  got  up,  but  the  man  remained 
seated  on  the  ground. 

"  I'm  looking  for  Jo  Papo,"  Alan  explained. 

"  What  you  want  ?  "  the  squaw  asked.  "  You  got 
work  ?  "  The  words  were  pronounced  with  difficulty 
and  evidently  composed  most  of  her  English  vocab- 
ulary. 

"  I  want  to  see  him,  that's  all."  Alan  turned  to  the 
man.  "You're  Jo  Papo,  aren't  you?" 

The  Indian  assented  by  an  almost  imperceptible 
nod. 

"You  used  to  live  near  Escanaba,  didn't  you?" 

Jo  Papo  considered  before  replying;  either  his  scru- 
tiny of  Alan  reassured  him,  or  he  recalled  nothing  hav- 
ing to  do  with  his  residence  near  Escanaba  which  dis- 
turbed him.  "  Yes  ;  once,"  he  said. 

"  Your  father  was  Azen  Papo?  " 

"He's     dead,"     the     Indian     replied.     "Not     my 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         233 

father,   anyway.     Grandfather.     What   about   him? " 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  ask  you,"  Alan  said. 
"  When  did  he  die  and  how?  " 

Jo  iPapo  got  up  and  stood  leaning  his  back  against 
a  tree.  So  far  from  being  one  who  was  merely  curious 
about  Indians,  this  stranger  perhaps  was  coming 
about  an  Indian  claim  —  to  give  money  maybe  for  in- 
justices done  in  the  past. 

"  My  grandfather  die  fifteen  years  ago,"  he  informed 
them.  "  From  cough,  I  think." 

"Where  was  that?"  Alan  asked. 

"  Escanaba  —  near  there." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  Take  people  to  shoot  deer  —  fish  —  a  guide.  I 
think  he  plant  a  little  too." 

"He  didn't  work  on  the  boats?" 

"  No ;  my  father,  he  work  on  the  boats." 

"What  was  his  name?" 

"  Like  me ;  Jo  Papo  too.     He's  dead." 

"  What  is  your  Indian  name  ?  " 

"Flying  Eagle." 

"What  boats  did  your  father  work  on?" 

"  Many  boats." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"Deck  hand." 

"  What  boat  did  he  work  on  last?  " 

"Last?  How  do  I  know?  He  went  away  one  year 
and  didn't  come  back?  I  suppose  he  was  drowned  from 
a  boat." 

"What  year  was  that?" 

"  I  was  little  then ;  I  do  not  know." 

"  How  old  were  you  ?  " 

"  Maybe  eight  years ;  maybe  nine  or  ten." 


234  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  How  old  are  you  now  ?  " 

"  Thirty,  maybe." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Ben j  amin  Corvet  ?  " 

"Who?" 

"Benjamin  Corvet." 

"  No." 

Alan  turned  to  Constance;  she  had  been  listening 
intently,  but  she  made  no  comment.  "  That  is  all, 
then,"  he  said  to  Papo ;  "  if  I  find  out  anything  to  your 
advantage,  I'll  let  you  know."  He  had  aroused,  he 
understood,  expectations  of  benefit  in  these  poor  In- 
dians. Something  rose  in  Alan's  throat  and  choked 
him.  Those  of  whom  Benjamin  Corvet  had  so  labori- 
ously kept  trace  were,  very  many  of  them,  of  the  sort 
of  these  Indians;  that  they  had  never  heard  of  Benja- 
min Corvet  was  not  more  significant  than  that  they 
were  people  of  whose  existence  Benjamin  Corvet  could 
not  have  been  expected  to  be  aware.  What  conceiv- 
able bond  could  there  have  been  between  Alan's  father 
and  such  poor  people  as  these?  Had  his  father 
wronged  these  people?  Had  he  owed  them  something? 
This  thought,  which  had  been  growing  stronger  with 
each  succeeding  step  of  Alan's  investigations,  chilled 
and  horrified  him  now.  Revolt  against  his  father  more 
active  than  ever  before  seized  him,  revolt  stirring 
stronger  with  each  recollection  of  his  interviews  with 
the  people  upon  his  list.  As  they  walked  away,  Con- 
stance appreciated  that  he  was  feeling  something 
deeply ;  she  too  was  stirred. 

"  They  all  —  all  I  have  talked  to  —  are  like  that," 
he  said  to  her.  "  They  all  have  lost  some  one  upon  the 
lakes." 

In  her  feeling  for  him,  she  had  laid  her  hand  upon 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         235 

his  arm ;  now  her  fingers  tightened  to  sudden  tense- 
ness. "  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh,  it  is  not  definite  yet  — not  clear!"  She  felt 
the  bitterness  in  his  tone.  "They  have  not  any  of 
them  been  able  to  make  it  wholly  clear  to  me.  It  is 
like  a  record  that  has  been  —  blurred.  These  original 
names  must  have  been  written  down  by  my  father  many 
years  ago  —  many,  most  of  those  people,  I  think  —  are 
dead ;  some  are  nearly  forgotten.  The  only  thing  that 
is  fully  plain  is  that  in  every  case  my  inquiries  have  led 
me  to  those  who  have  lost  one,  and  sometimes  more  than 
one  relative  upon  the  lakes." 

Constance  thrilled  to  a  vague  horror ;  it  was  not 
anything  to  which  she  could  give  definite  reason.  His 
tone  quite  as  much  as  what  he  said  was  its  cause.  His 
experience  plainly  had  been  forcing  him  to  bitterness 
against  his  father ;  and  he  did  not  know  with  certainty 
yet  that  his  father  was  dead. 

She  had  not  found  it  possible  to  tell  him  that  yet; 
now  consciously  she  deferred  telling  him  until  she  could 
take  him  to  her  home  and  show  him  what  had  come. 
The  shrill  whistling  of  the  power  yacht  in  which  she 
and  her  party  had  come  recalled  to  her  that  all  were  to 
return  to  the  yacht  for  luncheon,  and  that  they  must 
be  waiting  for  her. 

"  You'll  lunch  with  us,  of  course,"  she  said  to  Alan, 
"  and  then  go  back  with  us  to  Harbor  Point.  It's  a 
day's  journey  around  the  two  bays;  but  we've  a  boat 
here." 

He  assented,  and  they  went  down  to  the  water  where 
the  white  and  brown  power  yacht,  with  long,  graceful 
lines,  lay  somnolently  in  the  sunlight.  A  little  boat 
took  them  out  over  the  shimmering,  smooth  surface  to 


236  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  ship ;  swells  from  a  faraway  freighter  swept  under 
the  beautiful,  burnished  craft,  causing  it  to  roll  lazily 
as  they  boarded  it.  A  party  of  nearly  a  dozen  men 
and  girls,  with  an  older  woman  chaperoning  them, 
lounged  under  the  shade  of  an  awning  over  the  after 
deck.  They  greeted  her  gaily  and  looked  curiously  at 
Alan  as  she  introduced  him. 

As  he  returned  their  rather  formal  acknowledg- 
ments and  afterward  fell  into  general  conversation 
with  them,  she  became  for  the  first  time  fully  aware  of 
how  greatly  he  had  changed  from  what  he  had  been 
when  he  had  come  to  them  six  months  before  in  Chicago. 
These  gay,  wealthy  loungers  would  have  dismayed  him 
then,  and  he  would  have  been  equally  dismayed  by  the 
luxury  of  the  carefully  appointed  yacht;  now  he  was 
not  thinking  at  all  about  what  these  people  might 
think  of  him.  In  return,  they  granted  him  considera- 
tion. It  was  not,  she  saw  that  they  accepted  him  as 
one  of  their  own  sort,  or  as  some  ordinary  acquaintance 
of  hers;  if  they  accounted  for  him  to  themselves  at  all, 
they  must  believe  him  to  be  some  officer  employed  upon 
her  father's  ships.  He  looked  like  that  —  with  his  face 
darkened  and  reddened  by  the  summer  sun  and  in  his 
clothing  like  that  of  a  ship's  officer  ashore.  He  had 
not  weakened  under  the  disgrace  which  Benjamin  Cor- 
vet  had  left  to  him,  whatever  that  might  be;  he  had 
grown  stronger  facing  it.  A  lump  rose  in  her  throat 
as  she  realized  that  the  lakes  had  been  setting  their 
seal  upon  him,  as  upon  the  man  whose  strength  and 
resourcefulness  she  loved. 

"  Have  you  worked  on  any  of  our  boats  ?  "  she  asked 
him,  after  luncheon  had  been  finished,  and  the  anchor 
of  the  ship  had  been  raised. 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         237 

A  queer  expression  came  upon  his  face.  **  I've 
thought  it  best  not  to  do  that,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  re- 
plied. 

She  did  not  know  why  the  next  moment  she  should 
think  of  Henry. 

"  Henry  was  going  to  bring  us  over  in  his  yacht  — 
the  Chippewa,"  she  said.  "But  he  was  called  away 
suddenly  yesterday  on  business  to  St.  Ignace  and  used 
his  boat  to  go  over  there." 

"  He's  at  Harbor  Point,  then." 

"  He  got  there  a  couple  of  nights  ago  and  will  be 
back  again  to-night  or  to-morrow  morning." 

The  yacht  was  pushing  swiftly,  smoothly,  with  hardly 
a  hum  from  its  motors,  north  along  the  shore.  He 
watched  intently  the  rolling,  wooded  hills  and  the 
ragged  little  bays  and  inlets.  His  work  and  his  investi- 
gatings  had  not  brought  him  into  the  neighborhood 
before,  but  she  found  that  she  did  not  have  to  name  the 
places  to  him;  he  knew  them  from  the  charts. 

"  Grand  Traverse  Light,"  he  said  to  her  as  a  white 
tower  showed  upon  their  left.  Then,  leaving  the  shore, 
they  pushed  out  across  the  wide  mouth  of  the  larger 
bay  toward  Little  Traverse.  He  grew  more  silent  as 
they  approached  it. 

"  It  is  up  there,  isn't  it,"  he  asked,  pointing,  "  that 
they  hear  the  Drum?" 

"  Yes ;  how  did  you  know  the  place  ?  " 

*'  I  don't  know  it  exactly ;  I  want  you  to  show  me." 

She  pointed  out  to  him  the  copse,  dark,  primeval, 
blue  in  its  contrast  with  the  lighter  green  of  the  trees 
about  it  and  the  glistening  white  of  the  shingle  and 
of  the  more  distant  sand  bluffs.  He  leaned  forward, 
staring  at  it,  until  the  changed  course  of  the  yacht,  as 


238          $6      THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

it  swung  about  toward  the  entrance  to  the  bay,  ob- 
scured it.  They  were  meeting  other  power  boats  now 
of  their  yacht's  own  size  and  many  smaller ;  they  passed 
white-sailed  sloops  and  cat-boats,  almost  becalmed,  with 
girls  and  boys  diving  from  their  sides  and  swimming 
about.  As  they  neared  the  Point,  a  panorama  of  play 
such  as,  she  knew,  he  scarcely  could  have  seen  before, 
was  spread  in  front  of  them.  The  sun  gleamed  back 
from  the  white  sides  and  varnished  decks  and  shining 
brasswork  of  a  score  or  more  of  cruising  yachts  and 
many  smaller  vessels  lying  in  the  anchorage. 

"  The  Chicago  to  Mackinac  yacht  race  starts  this 
week,  and  the  cruiser  fleet  is  working  north  to  be  in  at 
the  finish,"  she  offered.  Then  she  saw  he  was  not  look- 
ing at  these  things ;  he  was  studying  with  a  strange  ex- 
pression the  dark,  uneven  hills  which  shut  in  the  two 
towns  and  the  bay. 

"  You  remember  how  the  ship  rhymes  you  told  me 
and  that  about  Michabou  and  seeing  the  ships  made  me 
feel  that  I  belonged  here  on  the  lakes,"  he  reminded 
her.  "  I  have  felt  something  —  not  recognition  ex- 
actly, but  something  that  was  like  the  beginning  of 
recognition  —  many  times  this  summer  when  I  saw 
certain  places.  It's  like  one  of  those  dreams,  you 
know,  in  which  you  are  conscious  of  having  had  the 
same  dream  before.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  know  this 
place." 

They  landed  only  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  cot- 
tage. After  bidding  good-by  to  her  friends,  they  went 
up  to  it  together  through  the  trees.  There  was  a  small 
sun  room,  rather  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  house, 
to  which  she  led  him.  Leaving  him  there,  she  ran  up- 
stairs to  get  the  things. 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         239 

She  halted  an  instant  beside  the  door,  with  the  box  in 
her  hands,  before  she  went  back  to  him,  thinking  how 
to  prepare  him  against  the  significance  of  these  relics 
of  his  father.  She  need  not  prepare  him  against  the 
mere  fact  of  his  father's  death;  he  had  been  beginning 
to  believe  that  already;  but  these  things  must  have  far 
more  meaning  for  him  than  merely  that.  They  must 
frustrate  one  course  of  inquiry  for  him  at  the  same 
time  they  opened  another;  they  would  close  for  him 
forever  the  possibility  of  ever  learning  anything  about 
himself  from  his  father ;  they  would  introduce  into  his 
problem  some  new,  some  unknown  person  —  the  sender 
of  these  things. 

She  went  in  and  put  the  box  down  upon  the  card 
table. 

"  The  muffler  in  the  box  was  your  father's,"  she  told 
him.  "  He  had  it  on  the  day  he  disappeared.  The 
other  things,"  her  voice  choked  a  little,  "  are  the  things 
he  must  have  had  in  his  pockets.  They've  been  lying 
in  water  and  sand — " 

He  gazed  at  her.  "  I  understand,"  he  said  after  an 
instant.  "  You  mean  that  they  prove  his  death." 

She  assented  gently,  without  speaking.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  box,  she  drew  back  from  it  and  slipped 
away  into  the  next  room.  She  walked  up  and  down 
there,  pressing  her  hands  together.  He  must  be  look- 
ing at  the  things  now,  unrolling  the  muffler.  .  .  .  What 
would  he  be  feeling  as  he  saw  them  ?  Would  he  be  glad, 
with  that  same  gladness  which  had  mingled  with  her 
own  sorrow  over  Uncle  Benny,  that  his  father  was  gone 
—  gone  from  his  guilt  and  his  fear  and  his  disgrace  ? 
Or  would  he  resent  that  death  which  thus  left  every- 
thing unexplained  to  him?  He  would  be  looking  at  the 


240  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

ring.  That,  at  least,  must  bring  more  joy  than  grief 
to  him.  He  would  recognize  that  it  must  be  his 
mother's  wedding  ring;  if  it  told  him  that  his  mother 
must  be  dead,  it  would  tell  him  that  she  had  been  mar- 
ried, or  had  believed  that  she  was  married! 

Suddenly  she  heard  him  calling  her.  "  Miss  Sher- 
rill !  "  His  voice  had  a  sharp  thrill  of  excitement. 

She  hurried  toward  the  sun  room.  She  could  see 
him  through  the  doorway,  bending  over  the  card  table 
with  the  things  spread  out  upon  its  top  in  front  of 
him. 

"  Miss  Sherrill !  "  he  called  again. 

"  Yes." 

He  straightened ;  he  was  very  pale.  "  Would  coins 
that  my  father  had  in  his  pocket  all  have  been  more 
than  twenty  years  old  ?  " 

She  ran  and  bent  beside  him  over  the  coins. 
"  Twenty  years !  "  she  repeated.  She  was  making  out 
the  dates  of  the  coins  now  herself;  the  markings  were 
eroded,  nearly  gone  in  some  instances,  but  in  every  case 
enough  remained  to  make  plain  the  date.  "  Eighteen- 
ninety  —  1893  — 1889,"  she  made  them  out.  Her 
voice  hushed  queerly.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  she 
whispered. 

He  turned  over  and  reexamined  the  articles  with 
hands  suddenly  steadying.  "  There  are  two  sets  of 
things  here,"  he  concluded.  "  The  muffler  and  paper  of 
directions  —  they  belonged  to  my  father.  The  other 
tilings  —  it  isn't  six  months  or  less  than  six  months 
that  they've  lain  in  sand  and  water  to  become  worn  like 
this;  it's  twenty  years.  My  father  can't  have  had 
these  things ;  they  were  somewhere  else,  or  some  one  else 
had  them.  He  wrote  his  directions  to  that  person  — 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         241 

after  June  twelfth,  he  said,  so  it  was  before  June 
twelfth  he  wrote  it;  but  we  can't  tell  how  long  before. 
It  might  have  been  in  February,  when  he  disappeared ; 
it  might  have  been  any  time  after  that.  But  if  the  di- 
rections were  written  so  long  ago,  why  weren't  the 
things  sent  to  you  before  this  ?  Didn't  the  person  have 
the  things  then?  Did  we  have  to  wait  to  get  them? 
Or  —  was  it  the  instructions  to  send  them  that  he  didn't 
have  ?  Or,  if  he  had  the  instructions,  was  he  waiting  to 
receive  word  when  they  were  to  be  sent?  " 

"  To  receive  word  ?  "  she  echoed. 

"  Word  from  my  father !  You  thought  these  things 
proved  my  father  was  dead.  I  think  they  prove  he  is 
alive !  Oh,  we  must  think  this  out !  " 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room;  she  sank  into  a 
chair,  watching  him.  "  The  first  thing  that  we  must 
do,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  is  to  find  out  about  the  watch. 
What  is  the  'phone  number  of  the  telegraph  office?  * 

She  told  him,  and  he  went  out  to  the  telephone;  she 
sprang  up  to  follow  him,  but  checked  herself  and  merely 
waited  until  he  came  back. 

"  I've  wired  to  Buffalo,"  he  announced.  "  The  Mer- 
chants' Exchange,  if  it  is  still  in  existence,  must  have 
a  record  of  the  presentation  of  the  watch.  At  any 
rate,  the  wreck  of  the  Winnebago  and  the  name  of  the 
skipper  of  the  other  boat  must  be  in  the  files  of  the 
newspapers  of  that  time." 

"  Then  you'll  stay  here  with  us  until  an  answer 
comes." 

"  If  we  get  a  reply  by  to-morrow  morning ;  I'll  wait 
till  then.  If  not,  I'll  ask  you  to  forward  it  to  me.  I 
must  see  about  the  trains  and  get  back  to  Frankfort. 
I  can  cross  by  boat  from  there  to  Manitowoc  —  that 


242  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

will  be  quickest.  We  must  begin  there,  by  trying  to 
find  out  who  sent  the  package." 

"  Henry  Spearman's  already  sent  to  have  that  inves- 
tigated." 

Alan  made  no  reply ;  but  she  saw  his  lips  draw  tighter 
quickly.  "  I  must  go  myself  as  soon  as  I  can,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment. 

She  helped  him  put  the  muffler  and  the  other  articles 
back  into  the  box;  she  noticed  that  the  wedding  ring 
was  no  longer  with  them.  He  had  taken  that,  then ;  it 
had  meant  to  him  all  that  she  had  known  it  must 
mean.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  she  was  up  very  early ;  but  Alan,  the 
servants  told  her,  had  risen  before  she  had  and  had 
gone  out.  The  morning,  after  the  cool  northern  night, 
was  chill.  She  slipped  a  sweater  on  and  went  out  on 
the  veranda,  loking  about  for  him.  An  iridescent 
haze  shrouded  the  hills  and  the  bay;  in  it  she  heard  a 
ship's  bell  strike  twice ;  then  another  struck  twice  — 
then  another  —  and  another  —  and  another.  The 
haze  thinned  as  the  sun  grew  warmer,  showing  the 
placid  water  of  the  bay  on  which  the  ships  stood  double 
—  a  real  ship  and  a  mirrored  one.  She  saw  Alan  re- 
turning, and  knowing  from  the  direction  from  which  he 
came  that  he  must  have  been  to  the  telegraph  office, 
she  ran  to  meet  him. 

"  Was  there  an  answer  ?  "  she  inquired  eagerly. 

He  took  a  yellow  telegraph  sheet  from  his  pocket  and 
held  it  for  her  to  read. 

"  Watch  presented  Captain  Caleb  Stafford,  master 
of  propeller  freighter  Marvin  Halch  for  rescue  of  crew 
and  passengers  of  sinking  steamer  Wwmebago  off  Long 
Point,  Lake  Erie." 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         243 

She  was  breathing  quickly  in  her  excitement. 
"Caleb  Stafford!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  that  was 
Captain  Stafford  of  Stafford  and  Ramsdell!  They 
owned  the  Miwaka!  " 

"  Yes,"  Alan  said. 

"  You  asked  me  about  that  ship  —  the  Miwaka  — 
that  first  morning  at  breakfast !  " 

"  Yes." 

A  great  change  had  come  over  him  since  last  night ; 
he  was  under  emotion  so  strong  that  he  seemed  scarcely 
to  dare  to  speak  lest  it  master  him  —  a  leaping,  exult- 
ant impulse  it  was,  which  he  fought  to  keep  down. 

"  What  is  it,  Alan?  "  she  asked.  "  What  is  it  about 
the  Miwaka?  You  said  you'd  found  some  reference  to 
it  in  Uncle  Benny's  house.  What  was  it?  What  did 
you  find  there?  " 

"  The  man  — "  Alan  swallowed  and  steadied  himself 
and  repeated  — "  the  man  I  met  in  the  house  that  night 
mentioned  it." 

"  The  man  who  thought  you  were  a  ghost  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  — how  did  he  mention  it?  " 

"  He  seemed  to  think  I  was  a  ghost  that  had  haunted 
Mr.  Corvet  —  the  ghost  from  the  Miwaka;  at  least  he 
shouted  out  to  me  that  I  couldn't  save  the  Miwaka!  " 

"  Save  the  Miwaka!  What  do  you  mean,  Alan? 
The  Miwaka  was  lost  with  all  her  people  —  officers  and 
crew  —  no  one  knows  how  or  where !  " 

"  All  except  the  one  for  whom  the  Drum  didn't 
beat ! " 

"What's  that?"  Blood  pricked  in  her  cheeks. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Alan?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet;  but  I  think  I'll  soon  find  out! " 


£44  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  No ;  you  can  tell  me  more  now,  Alan.  Surely  you 
can.  I  must  know.  I  have  the  right  to  know.  Yes- 
terday, even  before  you  found  out  about  this,  you  knew 
things  you  weren't  telling  me  —  things  about  the 
people  you'd  been  seeing.  They'd  all  lost  people  on 
the  lakes,  you  said ;  but  you  found  out  more  than  that." 

"  They'd  all  lost  people  on  the  Mwoaka!  "  he  said. 
"  All  who  could  tell  me  where  their  people  were  lost ;  a 
few  were  like  Jo  Papo  we  saw  yesterday,  who  knew  only 
the  year  his  father  was  lost;  but  the  time  always  was 
the  time  that  the  M'vwdka  disappeared ! " 

"  Disappeared ! "  she  repeated.  Her  veins  were 
pricking  cold.  What  did  he  know,  what  could  any  one 
know  of  the  MiwaJca,  the  ship  of  which  nothing  ever 
was  heard  except  the  beating  of  the  Indian  Drum? 
She  tried  to  make  him  say  more;  but  he  looked  away 
now  down  to  the  lake. 

"  The  Chippewa  must  have  come  in  early  this  morn- 
ing," he  said.  "  She's  lying  in  the  harbor ;  I  saw  her 
on  my  way  to  the  telegraph  office.  If  Mr.  Spearman 
has  come  back  with  her,  tell  him  I'm  sorry  I  can't  wait 
to  see  him." 

"  When  are  you  going?  " 

"  Now." 

She  offered  to  drive  him  to  Petoskey,  but  he  already 
had  arranged  for  a  man  to  take  him  to  the  train. 

She  went  to  her  room  after  he  was  gone  and  spread 
out  again  on  her  bed  the  watch  —  now  the  watch  of 
Captain  Stafford  of  the  M'vwdka  —  with  the  knife  and 
coins  of  more  than  twenty  years  ago  which  came  with  it. 
The  meaning  of  them  now  was  all  changed;  she  felt 
that ;  but  what  the  new  meaning  might  be  could  not  yet 
come  to  her.  Something  of  it  had  come  to  Alan ;  that, 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH          245 

undoubtedly,  was  what  had  so  greatly  stirred  him ;  but 
she  could  not  yet  reassemble  her  ideas.  Yet  a  few 
facts  had  become  plain. 

A  maid  came  to  say  that  Mr.  Spearman  had  come 
up  from  his  boat  for  breakfast  with  her  and  was  down- 
stairs. She  went  down  to  find  Henry  lounging  in  one 
of  the  great  wicker  chairs  in  the  living  room.  He 
arose  and  came  toward  her  quickly ;  but  she  halted 
before  he  could  seize  her. 

"  I  got  back,  Connie  — " 

"Yes;  I  heard  you  did." 

"  What's  wrong,  dear?  " 

"  Alan  Conrad  has  been  here,  Henry." 

"  He  has?     How  was  that?  " 

She  told  him  while  he  watched  her  intently.  "  He 
wired  to  Buffalo  about  the  watch.  He  got  a  reply 
which  he  brought  to  me  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Yes?" 

"The  watch  belonged  to  Captain  Stafford  who  was 
lost  with  the  Miwaka,  Henry." 

He  made  no  reply ;  but  waited. 

"  You  may  not  have  known  that  it  was  his ;  I  mean, 
you  may  not  have  known  that  it  was  he  who  rescued 
the  people  of  the  Winnebago,  but  you  must  have  known 
that  Uncle  Benny  didn't." 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  that,  Connie,"  he  answered  evenly. 

"  Then  why  did  you  let  me  think  the  watch  was  his 
and  that  he  must  be  — dead?  " 

"  That's  all's  the  matter?  You  had  thought  he  was 
dead.  I  believed  it  was  better  for  you  —  for  every  one 
—  to  believe  that." 

She  drew  a  little  away  from  him,  with  hands  clasped 
behind  her  back,  gazing  intently  at  him.  "  There  was 


246  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

some  writing  found  in  Uncle  Benny's  house  in  Astor 
Street  —  a  list  of  names  of  relatives  of  people  who 
had  lost  their  lives  upon  the  lake.  Wassaquam  knew 
where  those  things  were.  Alan  says  they  were  given 
to  him  in  your  presence." 

She  saw  the  blood  rise  darkly  under  his  skin.  "  That 
is  true,  Connie." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  that?  " 

He  straightened  as  if  with  anger.  "  Why  should  I  ? 
Because  he  thought  that  I  should?  What  did  he  tell 
you  about  those  lists  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you,  after  you  went  back,  if  anything  else 
had  happened,  Henry,  and  you  said,  '  nothing.'  I 
should  not  have  considered  the  finding  of  those  lists 
'  nothing.'  " 

"Why  not?  What  were  they  but  names?  What 
has  he  told  you  they  were,  Connie?  What  has  he  said 
to  you?  " 

"Nothing  —  except  that  his  father  had  kept  them 
very  secretly;  but  he's  found  out  they  were  names  of 
people  who  had  relatives  on  the  Miwaka!  " 

"What?" 

Recalling  how  her  blood  had  run  when  Alan  had  told 
her  that,  Henry's  whiteness  and  the  following  suf- 
fusion of  his  face  did  not  surprise  her. 

He  turned  away  a  moment  and  considered. 
"  Where's  Conrad  now,  Connie?  " 

"  He's  gone  to  Frankfort  to  cross  to  Manitowoc." 

"  To  get  deeper  into  that  mess,  I  suppose.  He'll 
only  be  sorry." 

"Sorry?" 

"  I  told  that  fellow  long  ago  not  to  start  stirring 
these  matters  up  about  Ben  Corvet,  and  particularly  I 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH          247 

told  him  that  he  was  not  to  bring  any  of  it  to  you. 
It's  not  —  a  thing  that  a  man  like  Ben  covered  up  for 
twenty  years  till  it  drove  him  crazy  is  sure  not  to  be 
a  thing  for  a  girl  to  know.  Conrad  seems  to  have  paid 
no  attention  to  me.  But  I  should  think  by  this  time 
he  ought  to  begin  to  suspect  what  sort  of  thing  he's 
going  to  turn  up.  I  don't  know;  but  I  certainly  sus- 
pect—  Ben  leaving  everything  to  that  boy,  whom  no 
one  had  heard  of,  and  the  sort  of  thing  which  has  come 
up  since.  It's  certainly  not  going  to  be  anything 
pleasant  for  any  of  us,  Connie  —  for  you,  or  your 
father,  or  for  me,  or  for  anybody  who'd  cared  for  Ben, 
or  had  been  associated  with  him.  Least  of  all,  I  should 
say,  would  it  prove  anything  pleasant  for  Conrad. 
Ben  ran  away  from  it,  because  he  knew  what  it  was ; 
why  doesn't  this  fellow  let  him  stay  away  from  it?" 

"  He  —  I  mean  Alan,  Henry,"  she  said,  "  isn't  think- 
ing about  himself  in  this;  he  isn't  thinking  about  his 
father.  He  believes  —  he  is  certain  now  —  that,  what- 
ever his  father  did,  he  injured  some  one;  and  his  idea 
in  going  ahead  —  he  hasn't  told  it  to  me  that  way,  but 
I  know  —  is  to  find  out  the  whole  matter  in  order  that 
he  may  make  recompense.  It's  a  terrible  thing,  what- 
ever happened.  He  knows  that,  and  I  know;  but  he 
wants  —  and  I  want  him  for  his  sake,  even  for  Uncle 
Benny's  sake  —  to  see  it  through." 

"  Then  it's  a  queer  concern  you've  got  for  Ben ! 
Let  it  alone,  I  tell  you." 

She  stood  flushed  and  perplexed,  gazing  at  him. 
She  never  had  seen  him  under  stronger  emotion. 

"  You  misunderstood  me  once,  Connie !  "  he  appealed. 
"  You'll  understand  me  now !  " 

She  had  been  thinking  about  that  injustice  she  had 


248  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

done  him  in  her  thought  —  about  his  chivalry  to  his 
partner  and  former  benefactor,  when  Uncle  Benny  was 
still  keeping  his  place  among  men.  Was  Henry  now 
moved,  in  a  way  which  she  could  not  understand,  by 
some  other  obligation  to  the  man  who  long  ago  had 
aided  him?  Had  Henry  hazarded  more  than  he  had 
told  her  of  the  nature  of  the  thing  hidden  which,  if  she 
could  guess  it,  would  justify  what  he  said? 

In  the  confusion  of  her  thought,  one  thing  came 
clearly  which  troubled  her  and  of  which  she  could  not 
speak.  The  watch  of  Captain  Stafford's  and  the  ring 
and  the  coins,  which  had  made  her  believe  that  Uncle 
Benny  was  dead,  had  not  been  proof  of  that  to  Henry. 
Yet  he  had  taken  advantage  of  her  belief,  without  un- 
deceiving her,  to  urge  her  to  marry  him  at  once. 

She  knew  of  the  ruthlessness  of  Henry's  business 
life;  he  had  forced  down,  overcome  all  who  opposed 
him,  and  he  had  made  full  use  for  his  own  advantage  of 
other  men's  mistakes  and  erroneous  beliefs  and  opin- 
ions. If  he  had  used  her  belief  in  Uncle  Benny's  death 
to  hasten  their  marriage,  it  was  something  which 
others  —  particularly  she  —  could  pardon  and  accept. 

If  she  was  drawn  to  him  for  his  strength  and  domi- 
nance, which  sometimes  ran  into  ruthlessness,  she  had 
no  right  to  complain  if  he  turned  it  thus  upon  her. 

She  had  made  Alan  promise  to  write  her,  if  he 
was  not  to  return,  regarding  what  he  learned;  and  a 
letter  came  to  her  on  the  fourth  day  from  him  in 
Manitowoc.  The  postoffice  employees  had  no  recol- 
lection, he  said,  of  the  person  who  had  mailed  the  pack- 
age; it  simply  had  been  dropped  by  some  one  into  the 
receptacle  for  mailing  packages  of  that  sort.  They 
did  not  know  the  handwriting  upon  the  wrapper,  which 


THE  OWN3K  ^F  THE  WATCH         249 

he  had  taken  with  him ;  nor  was  it  known  at  the  bank  or 
in  any  of  the  stores  where  he  had  shown  it.  The  shoe 
dealer  had  no  recollection  of  that  particular  box. 
Alan,  however,  was  continuing  his  inquiries. 

In  September  he  reported  in  a  brief,  totally  imper- 
sonal note,  that  he  was  continuing  with  the  investiga- 
tions he  had  been  making  previous  to  his  visit  to 
Harbor  Point;  this  came  from  Sarnia,  Ontario.  In 
October  he  sent  a  different  address  where  he  could  be 
found  in  case  anything  more  came,  such  as  the  box 
which  had  come  to  Constance  in  August. 

She  wrote  to  him  in  reply  each  time;  in  lack  of 
anything  more  important  to  tell  him,  she  related  some 
of  her  activities  and  inquired  about  his.  After  she 
had  written  him  thus  twice,  he  replied,  describing  his 
life  on  the  boats  pleasantly  and  humorously;  then, 
though  she  immediately  replied,  she  did  not  hear  from 
him  again. 

She  had  returned  to  Chicago  late  in  September  and 
soon  was  very  busy  with  social  affairs,  benefits,  and 
bazaars  which  were  given  that  fall  for  the  Red  Cross 
and  the  different  Allied  causes ;  a  little  later  came  a 
series  of  the  more  personal  and  absorbing  luncheons 
and  dances  and  dinners  for  her  and  for  Henry,  since 
their  engagement,  which  long  had  been  taken  for 
granted  by  every  one  who  knew  them,  was  announced 
now.  So  the  days  drifted  into  December  and  winter 
again. 

The  lake,  beating  against  the  esplanade  across  the 
Drive  before  Constance's  windows,  had  changed  its 
color;  it  had  no  longer  its  autumn  blue  and  silver;  it 
was  gray,  sluggish  with  floating  needle-points  of  ice 
held  in  solution.  The  floe  had  not  yet  begun  to  form, 


250  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

but  the  piers  and  breakwaters  had  white  ice  caps 
frozen  from  spray  —  harbingers  of  the  closing  of  navi- 
gation. The  summer  boats,  those  of  Corvet,  Sherrill, 
and  Spearman  with  the  rest,  were  being  tied  up.  The 
birds  were  gone ;  only  the  gulls  remained  —  gray, 
clamorous  shapes  circling  and  calling  to  one  another 
across  the  water.  Early  in  December  the  newspapers 
announced  the  closing  of  the  locks  at  the  "  Soo  "  by 
the  ice. 

That  she  had  not  heard  from  Alan  was  beginning  to 
recur  to  Constance  with  strange  insistence.  He  must 
have  left  the  boats  by  now,  unless  he  had  found  work 
on  one  of  those  few  which  ran  through  the  winter. 

He  and  his  occupation,  instead  of  slipping  from  her 
thoughts  with  time,  absorbed  her  more  and  more. 
Soon  after  he  had  gone  to  Manitowoc  and  he  had 
written  that  he  had  discovered  nothing,  she  had  gone 
to  the  office  of  the  Petoskey  paper  and,  looking  back 
over  the  twenty-year-old  files,  she  had  read  the  ac- 
count of  the  loss  of  the  MiwaJca,  with  all  on  board. 
That  fate  was  modified  only  by  the  Indian  Drum  beat- 
ing short.  So  one  man  from  the  Miwaka  had  been 
saved  somehow,  many  believed.  If  that  could  have 
been,  there  was,  or  there  had  been,  some  one  alive  after 
the  ship  "  disappeared  " —  Alan's  word  went  through 
her  with  a  chill  —  who  knew  what  had  happened  to  the 
ship  and  who  knew  of  the  fate  of  his  shipmates. 

She  had  gone  over  the  names  again;  if  there  was 
meaning  in  the  Drum,  who  was  the  man  who  had  been 
saved  and  visited  that  fate  on  Benjamin  Corvet? 
Was  it  Luke?  There  was  no  Luke  named  among  the 
crew;  but  such  men  often  went  by  many  names.  If 
Luke  had  been  among  the  crew  of  the  Miwaka  and  had 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         251 

brought  from  that  lost  ship  something  which  threat- 
ened Uncle  Benny  that,  at  least,  explained  Luke. 

Then  another  idea  had  seized  her.  Captain  Caleb 
Stafford  was  named  among  the  lost,  of  course;  with 
him  had  perished  his  son,  a  boy  of  three.  That  was 
all  that  was  said,  and  all  that  was  to  be  learned  of  him, 
the  boy. 

Alan  had  been  three  then.  This  was  wild,  crazy 
speculation.  The  ship  was  lost  with  all  hands;  only 
the  Drum,  believed  in  by  the  superstitious  and  the  most 
ignorant,  denied  that.  The  Drum  said  that  one  soul 
had  been  saved.  How  could  a  child  of  three  have  been 
saved  when  strong  men,  to  the  last  one,  had  perished? 
And,  if  he  had  been  saved,  he  was  Stafford's  son. 
Why  should  Uncle  Benny  have  sent  him  away  and 
cared  for  him  and  then  sent  for  him  and,  himself  dis- 
appearing, leave  all  he  had  to  —  Stafford's  son  ? 

Or  was  he  Stafford's  son?  Her  thought  went  back 
to  the  things  which  had  been  sent  —  the  things  from  a 
man's  pockets  with  a  wedding  ring  among  them.  She 
had  believed  that  the  ring  cleared  the  mother's  name; 
might  it  in  reality  only  more  involve  it?  Why  had  it 
come  back  like  this  to  the  man  by  whom,  perhaps,  it 
had  been  given?  Henry's  words  came  again  and  again 
to  Constance :  "  It's  a  queer  concern  you've  got  for 
Ben.  Leave  it  alone,  I  tell  you ! "  He  knew  then 
something  about  Uncle  Benny  which  might  have 
brought  on  some  terrible  thing  which  Henry  did  not 
know  but  might  guess?  Constance  went  weak  within. 
Uncle  Benny's  wife  had  \left  him,  she  remembered. 
Was  it  better,  after  all,  to  "leave  it  alone?  " 

But  it  wasn't  a  thing  which  one  could  command  one's 
mind  to  leave  alone ;  and  Constance  could  not  make  her- 


252  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

self  try  to,  so  long  as  it  concerned  Alan.  Coming 
home  late  one  afternoon  toward  the  middle  of  Decem- 
ber, she  dismissed  the  motor  and  stood  gazing  at  the 
gulls.  The  day  was  chill,  gray;  the  air  had  the  feel, 
and  the  voices  of  the  gulls  had  the  sound  to  her,  which 
precede  the  coming  of  a  severe  storm.  The  gulls  re- 
called sharply  to  her  the  day  when  Alan  first  had  come 
to  them,  and  how  she  had  been  the  one  first  to  meet  him 
and  the  child  verse  which  had  told  him  that  he  too  was 
of  the  lakes. 

She  went  on  into  the  house.  A  telegraph  envelope 
addressed  to  her  father  was  on  the  table  in  the  hall. 
A  servant  told  her  the  message  had  come  an  hour  be- 
fore, and  that  he  had  telephoned  to  Mr.  Sherrill's  office, 
but  Mr.  Sherrill  was  not  in.  There  was  no  reason  for 
her  thinking  that  the  message  might  be  from  Alan  ex- 
cept his  presence  in  her  thoughts,  but  she  went  at  once 
to  the  telephone  and  called  her  father.  He  was  in 
now,  and  he  directed  her  to  open  the  message  and  read 
it  to  him. 

"  Have  some  one,"  she  read  aloud ;  she  choked  in  her 
excitement  at  what  came  next  — "  Have  some  one  who 
knew  Mr.  Corvet  well  enough  to  recognize  him,  even  if 
greatly  changed,  meet  Carferry  Number  25  Manito- 
woc  Wednesday  this  week.  Alan  Conrad." 

Her  heart  was  beating  fast.  "  Are  you  there?  "  she 
said  into  the  'phone. 

"  Yes." 

"  Whom  shall  you  send?  " 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  "I  shall  go  my- 
self," her  father  answered. 

She  hung  up  the  receiver.  Had  Alan  found  Uncle 
Benny?  He  had  found,  apparently,  someone  whose  re- 


THE  OWNER  OF  THE  WATCH         253 

semblance  to  the  picture  she  had  showed  him  was 
marked  enough  to  make  him  believe  that  person  might 
be  Benjamin  Corvet;  or  he  had  heard  of  some  one  who, 
from  the  account  he  had  received,  he  thought  might  be. 
She  read  again  the  words  of  the  telegram  ..."  even 
if  greatly  changed !  "  and  she  felt  startling  and  terrify- 
ing warning  in  that  phrase. 


CHAPTER  XV 

OLD    BUEB   OF    THE    FERRY 

IT  was  in  late  November  and  while  the  coal 
carrier  Pontiac,  on  which  he  was  serving  as 
lookout,  was  in  Lake  Superior  that  Alan  first 
heard  of  Jim  Burr.  The  name  spoken  among  some 
other  names  in  casual  conversation  by  a  member  of  the 
crew,  stirred  and  excited  him ;  the  name  James  Burr,  oc- 
curring on  Benjamin  Corvet's  list,  had  borne  opposite 
it  the  legend  "  All  disappeared ;  no  trace,"  and  Alan, 
whose  investigations  had  accounted  for  all  others  whom 
the  list  contained,  had  been  able  regarding  Burr  only  to 
verify  the  fact  that  at  the  address  given  no  one  of  this 
name  was  to  be  found. 

He  questioned  the  oiler  who  had  mentioned  Burr. 
The  man  had  met  Burr  one  night  in  Manitowoc  with 
other  men,  and  something  about  the  old  man  had  im- 
pressed both  his  name  and  image  on  him;  he  knew  no 
more  than  that.  At  Manitowoc!  —  the  place  from 
which  Captain  Stafford's  watch  had  been  sent  to  Con- 
stance Sherrill  and  where  Alan  had  sought  for,  but  had 
failed  to  find,  the  sender!  Had  Alan  stumbled  by 
chance  upon  the  one  whom  Benjamin  Corvet  had  been 
unable  to  trace?  Had  Corvet,  after  his  disappear- 
ance, found  Burr?  Had  Burr  been  the  sender,  under 
Corvet's  direction,  of  those  things?  Alan  speculated 
upon  this.  The  man  might  well,  of  course,  be  some 


OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY  255 

other  Jim  Burr ;  there  were  probably  many  men  by  that 
name.  Yet  the  James  Burr  of  Corvet's  list  must  have 
been  such  a  one  as  the  oiler  described  —  a  white  haired 
old  man. 

Alan  could  not  leave  the  Pontiac  and  go  at  once  to 
Manitowoc  to  seek  for  Burr ;  for  he  was  needed  where 
he  was.  The  season  of  navigation  on  Lake  Superior 
was  near  its  close.  In  Duluth  skippers  were  clamoring 
for  cargoes;  ships  were  lading  in  haste  for  a  last  trip 
before  ice  closed  the  lake's  outlet  at  the  Soo  against  all 
ships.  It  was  fully  a  week  later  and  after  the  Pontiac 
had  been  laden  again  and  had  repassed  the  length  of 
Lake  Superior  that  Alan  left  the  vessel  at  Sault  Ste. 
Marie  and  took  the  train  for  Manitowoc. 

The  little  lake  port  of  Manitowoc,  which  l?e  reached 
in  the  late  afternoon,  was  turbulent  with  the  lake 
season's  approaching  close.  Long  lines  of  bulk 
freighters,  loaded  and  tied  up  to  wait  for  spring,  filled 
the  river;  their  released  crews  rioted  through  the  town. 
Alan  inquired  for  the  seamen's  drinking  place,  where 
his  informant  had  met  Jim  Burr;  following  the  direc- 
tions he  received  he  made  his  way  along  the  river  bank 
until  he  found  it.  The  place  was  neat,  immaculate;  a 
score  of  lakemen  sat  talking  at  little  tables  or  leaned 
against  the  bar.  Alan  inquired  of  the  proprietor  for 
Jim  Burr. 

The  proprietor  knew  old  Jim  Burr  —  yes.  Burr 
was  a  wheelsman  on  Carferry  Number  25.  He  was  a 
lakeman,  experienced  and  capable ;  that  fact,  some 
months  before,  had  served  as  introduction  for  him  to 
the  frequenters  of  this  place.  When  the  ferry  was  in 
harbor  and  his  duties  left  him  idle,  Burr  came  up  and 
waited  there,  occupying  always  the  same  chair.  He 


256  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

never  drank ;  he  never  spoke  to  others  unless  they  spoke 
first  to  him,  but  then  he  talked  freely  about  old  days 
on  the  lakes,  about  ships  which  had  been  lost  and  about 
men  long  dead. 

Alan  decided  that  there  could  be  no  better  place  to 
interview  old  Burr  than  here ;  he  waited  therefore,  and 
in  the  early  evening  the  old  man  came  in. 

Alan  watched  him  curiously  as,  without  speaking  to 
any  one,  he  went  to  the  chair  recognized  as  his  and  sat 
down.  He  was  a  slender  but  muscularly  built  man 
seeming  about  sixty-five,  but  he  might  be  considerably 
younger  or  older  than  that.  His  hair  was  completely 
white;  his  nose  was  thin  and  sensitive;  his  face  was 
smoothly  placid,  emotionless,  contented;  his  eyes  were 
queerly  clouded,  deepset  and  intent. 

Those  whose  names  Alan  had  found  on  Corvet's  list 
had  been  of  all  ages,  young  and  old;  but  Burr  might 
well  have  been  a  contemporary  of  Corvet  on  the  lakes. 
Alan  moved  over  and  took  a  seat  beside  the  old  man. 

"  You're  from  No.  25  ?  "  he  asked,  to  draw  him  into 
conversation. 

"  Yes." 

"  I've  been  working  on  the  carrier  Pontiac  as  look- 
out. She's  on  her  way  to  tie  up  at  Cleveland,  so  I  left 
her  and  came  on  here.  You  don't  know  whether  there's 
a  chance  for  me  to  get  a  place  through  the  winter  on 
No.  25?" 

Old  Burr  reflected.  "  One  of  our  boys  has  been  talk- 
ing of  leaving.  I  don't  know  when  he  expects  to  go. 
You  might  ask." 

"Thank  you;  I  will.  My  name's  Conrad  —  Alan 
Conrad." 

He  saw  no  recognition  of  the  name  in  Burr's  recep- 


OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY  257 

tion  of  it ;  but  he  had  not  expected  that.  None  of  those 
on  Benjamin  Corvet's  list  had  had  any  knowledge  of 
Alan  Conrad  or  had  heard  the  name  before. 

Alan  was  silent,  watching  the  old  man;  Burr,  silent 
too,  seemed  listening  to  the  conversation  which  came  to 
them  from  the  tables  near  by,  where  men  were  talking 
of  cargoes,  and  of  ships  and  of  men  who  worked  and 
sailed  upon  them. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  on  the  lakes  ?  "  Alan  in- 
quired. 

"  All  my  life."  The  question  awakened  reminiscence 
in  the  old  man.  "  My  father  had  a  farm.  I  didn't  like 
farming.  The  schooners  —  they  were  almost  all 
schooners  in  those  days  —  came  in  to  load  with  lumber. 
When  I  was  nine  years  old,  I  ran  away  and  got  on 
board  a  schooner.  I've  been  at  it,  sail  or  steam,  ever 
since." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  Miwaka?  " 

"  The  Miwaka?  " 

Old  Burr  turned  abruptly  and  studied  Alan  with  a 
slow  scrutiny  which  seemed  to  look  him  through  and 
through ;  yet  while  his  eyes  remained  fixed  on  Alan  sud- 
denly they  grew  blank.  He  was  not  thinking  now  of 
Alan,  but  had  turned  his  thoughts  within  himself. 

"  I  remember  her  —  yes.  She  was  lost  in  '95,"  he 
said.  "  In  '95,"  he  repeated. 

"  You  lost  a  nephew  with  her,  didn't  you?  " 

"  A  nephew  —  no.  That  is  a  mistake.  I  lost  a 
brother." 

"  Where  were  you  living  then  ?  " 

"  In  Emmet  County,  Michigan." 

"  When  did  you  move  to  Point  Corbay,  Ontario  ?  " 

"  I  never  lived  at  Point  Corbay." 


258  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  Did  any  of  your  family  live  there  ?  " 

"  No."  Old  Burr  looked  away  from  Alan,  and  the 
queer  cloudiness  of  his  eyes  became  more  evident. 

"Why,  do  you  ask  all  this?"  he  said  irritably. 
"  What  have  they  been  telling  you  about  me  ?  I  told 
you  about  myself ;  our  farm  was  in  Emmet  County,  but 
we  had  a  liking  for  the  lake.  One  of  my  brothers  was 
lost  in  '95  with  the  MiwaJca  and  another  in  '99  with  the 
Susan  Hart." 

"Did  you  know  Benjamin  Corvet?"  Alan  asked. 

Old  Burr  stared  at  him  uncertainly.  "  I  know  who 
he  is,  of  course." 

"  You  never  met  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Did  you  receive  a  communication  from  him  some 
time  this  year?  " 

"From  him?  From  Benjamin  Corvet?  No."  Old 
Burr's  uneasiness  seemed  to  increase.  "  What  sort  of 
communication?  " 

"  A  request  to  send  some  things  to  Miss  Constance 
Sherrill  at  Harbor  Point." 

"  I  never  heard  of  Miss  Constance  Sherrill.  To  send 
what  things?" 

"  Several  things  —  among  them  a  watch  which  had 
belonged  to  Captain  Stafford  of  the  Miwaka." 

Old  Burr  got  up  suddenly  and  stood  gazing  down  at 
Alan.  "A  watch  of  Captain  Stafford's ?  — no,"  he 
said  agitatedly.  "  No !  " 

He  moved  away  and  left  the  place;  and  Alan  sprang 
up  and  followed  him. 

He  was  not,  it  seemed  probable  to  Alan  now,  the 
James  Burr  of  Corvet's  list ;  at  least  Alan  could  not  see 
how  he  could  be  that  one.  Among  the  names  of  the 


OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY  259 

crew  of  the  M'wodka  Alan  had  found  that  of  a  Frank 
Burr,  and  his  inquiries  had  informed  him  that  this  man 
was  a  nephew  of  the  James  Burr  who  had  lived  near 
Port  Corbay  and  had  "  disappeared "  with  all  his 
family.  Old  Burr  had  not  lived  at  Port  Corbay  —  at 
least,  he  claimed  not  to  have  lived  there;  he  gave  an- 
other address  and  assigned  to  himself  quite  different 
connections.  For  every  member  of  the  crew  of  the 
Miwaha  there  had  been  a  corresponding,  but  different 
name  upon  Corvet's  list  —  the  name  of  a  close  relative. 
If  old  Burr  was  not  related  to  the  Burr  on  Corvet's  list, 
what  connection  could  he  have  with  the  Miwaka,  and 
why  should  Alan's  questions  have  agitated  him  so? 
Alan  would  not  lose  sight  of  old  Burr  until  he  had 
learned  the  reason  for  that. 

He  followed,  as  the  old  man  crossed  the  bridge  and 
turned  to  his  left  among  the  buildings  on  the  river 
front.  Burr's  figure,  vague  in  the  dusk,  crossed  the 
railroad  yards  and  made  its  way  to  where  a  huge  black 
bulk,  which  Alan  recognized  as  the  ferry,  loomed  at 
the  waterside.  He  disappeared  aboard  it.  Alan,  fol- 
lowing him,  gazed  about. 

A  long,  broad,  black  boat  the  ferry  was,  almost  four 
hundred  feet  to  the  tall,  bluff  bow.  Seen  from  the  stem, 
the  ship  seemed  only  an  unusually  rugged  and  power- 
ful steam  freighter;  viewed  from  the  beam,  the  vessel 
appeared  slightly  short  for  its  freeboard ;  only  when 
observed  from  the  stern  did  its  distinguishing  peculiar- 
ity become  plain ;  for  a  few  feet  only  above  the  water 
line,  the  stern  was  all  cut  away,  and  the  long,  low 
cavern  of  the  deck  gleamed  with  rails  upon  which  the 
electric  lights  glinted.  Save  for  the  supports  of  tjie 
superstructure  and  where  the  funnels  and  ventilator 


260  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

pipes  passed  up  from  below,  that  whole  strata  of  the 
ship  was  a  vast  car  shed;  its  tracks,  running  to  the 
edge  of  the  stern,  touched  tracks  on  the  dock.  A 
freight  engine  was  backing  loaded  cars  from  a  train 
of  sixteen  cars  upon  the  rails  on  the  starboard  side ; 
another  train  of  sixteen  big  box  cars  waited  to  go 
aboard  on  the  tracks  to  the  port  of  the  center  stan- 
chions. When  the  two  trains  were  aboard,  the  great 
vessel  — "  No.  25,"  in  big  white  stencil  upon  her  black 
sides  were  her  distinguishing  marks  —  would  thrust 
out  into  the  ice  and  gale  for  the  Michigan  shore  nearly 
eighty  miles  away. 

Alan  thrilled  a  little  at  his  inspection  of  the  ferry. 
He  had  not  seen  close  at  hand  before  one  of  these  great 
craft  which,  throughout  the  winter,  brave  ice  and  storm 
after  all  —  or  nearly  all  —  other  lake  boats  are  tied 
up.  He  had  not  meant  to  apply  there  when  he  ques- 
tioned old  Burr  about  a  berth  on  the  ferry ;  he  had  used 
that  merely  as  a  means  of  getting  into  conversation 
with  the  old  man.  But  now  he  meant  to  apply ;  for  it 
would  enable  him  to  find  out  more  about  old  Burr. 

He  went  forward  between  the  tracks  upon  the  deck 
to  the  companionway,  and  ascended  and  found  the  skip- 
per and  presented  his  credentials.  No  berth  on  the 
ferry  was  vacant  yet  but  one  soon  would  be,  and  Alan 
was  accepted  in  lieu  of  the  man  who  was  about  to  leave ; 
his  wages  would  not  begin  until  the  other  man  left,  but 
in  the  meantime  he  could  remain  aboard  the  ferry  if  he 
wished.  Alan  elected  to  remain  aboard.  The  skipper 
called  a  man  to  assign  quarters  to  Alan,  and  Alan,  go- 
ing with  the  man,  questioned  him  about  Burr. 

All  that  was  known  definitely  about  old  Burr  on  the 
ferry,  it  appeared,  was  that  he  had  joined  the  vessel  in 


OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY  261 

the  early  spring.  Before  that  —  they  did  not  know; 
he  might  be  an  old  lakeman  who,  after  spending  years 
ashore,  had  returned  to  the  lakes  for  a  livelihood.  He 
had  represented  himself  as  experienced  and  trained  upon 
the  lakes,  and  he  had  been  able  to  demonstrate  his  fit- 
ness ;  in  spite  of  his  age  he  was  one  of  the  most  capable 
of  the  crew. 

The  next  morning,  Alan  approached  old  Burr  in  the 
crew's  quarters  and  tried  to  draw  him  into  conversation 
again  about  himself;  but  Burr  only  stared  at  him  with 
his  intent  and  oddly  introspective  eyes  and  would  not 
talk  upon  this  subject.  A  week  passed;  Alan,  estab- 
lished as  a  lookout  now  on  No.  25  and  carrying  on  his 
duties,  saw  Burr  daily  and  almost  every  hour;  his 
watch  coincided  with  Burr's  watch  at  the  wheel  —  they 
went  on  duty  and  were  relieved  together.  Yet  better 
acquaintance  did  not  make  the  old  man  more  communi- 
cative ;  a  score  of  times  Alan  attempted  to  get  him  to 
tell  more  about  himself,  but  he  evaded  Alan's  questions 
and,  if  Alan  persisted,  he  avoided  him.  Then,  on  an 
evening  bitter  cold  with  the  coming  of  winter,  clear  and 
filled  with  stars,  Alan,  just  relieved  from  watch,  stood 
by  the  pilothouse  as  Burr  also  was  relieved.  The  old 
man  paused  beside  him,  looking  to  the  west. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  Sturgeon's  Bay  ?  "  he  asked. 

"In  Wisconsin?     No." 

"  There  is  a  small  house  there  —  and  a  child ;  born," 
he  seemed  figuring  the  date,  "  Feb.  12,  1914." 

"  A  relative  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  One  of  your  brothers'  children  or  grandchildren?  " 

"  I  had  no  brothers,"  old  Burr  said  quietly. 

Alan   stared  at  him,  amazed.     "  But  you  told  me 


262  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

about  your  brothers  and  about  their  being  lost  in 
wrecks  on  the  lake;  and  about  your  home  in  Emmet 
County !  " 

"  I  never  lived  in  Emmet  County,"  old  Burr  replied. 
"  Some  one  else  must  have  told  you  that  about  me.  I 
come  from  Canada  —  of  French-Canadian  descent. 
My  family  were  of  the  Hudson  Bay  people.  I  was  a 
guide  and  hunter  until  recently.  Only  a  few  years  ago 
I  came  onto  the  lakes,  but  my  cousin  came  here  before 
I  did.  It  is  his  child." 

Old  Burr  moved  away  and  Alan  turned  to  the  mate. 

"What  do  you  make  of  old  Burr?  "  he  asked. 

"  He's  a  romancer.  We  get  'em  that  way  once  in  a 
while  —  old  liars !  He'll  give  you  twenty  different  ac- 
counts of  himself  —  twenty  different  lives.  None  of 
them  is  true.  I  don't  know  who  he  is  or  where  he 
came  from,  but  it's  sure  he  isn't  any  of  the  things  he 
says  he  is." 

Alan  turned  away,  chill  with  disappointment.  It  was 
only  that,  then  —  old  Burr  was  a  romancer  after  the 
manner  of  some  old  seamen.  He  constructed  for  his 
own  amusement  these  "  lives."  He  was  not  only  not 
the  Burr  of  Corvet's  list ;  he  was  some  one  not  any  way 
connected  with  the  Miwaka  or  with  Corvet.  Yet  Alan, 
upon  reflection,  could  not  believe  that  it  was  only  this. 
Burr,  if  he  had  wished  to  do  that,  might  perhaps  merely 
have  simulated  agitation  when  Alan  questioned  him 
about  the  Miwaka;  but  why  should  he  have  wished  to 
simulate  it?  Alan  could  conceive  of  no  condition 
which  by  any  possibility  could  havp  suggested  such 
simulation  to  the  old  man. 

He  ceased  now,  however,  to  question  Burr  since  ques- 
tioning either  had  no  result  at  all  or  led  the  old  man  to 


OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY  263 

weaving  fictions ;  in  response  the  old  man  became  by 
degrees  more  communicative.  He  told  Alan,  at  differ- 
ent times,  a  number  of  other  "  lives  "  which  he  claimed 
as  his  own.  In  only  a  few  of  these  lives  had  he  been, 
by  his  account,  a  seaman;  he  had  been  a  multitude  of 
other  things  —  in  some  a  farmer,  in  others  a  lumber- 
jack or  a  fisherman;  he  had  been  born,  he  told,  in  a 
half-dozen  different  places  and  came  of  as  many  differ- 
ent sorts  of  people. 

On  deck,  one  night,  listening  while  old  Burr  related 
his  sixth  or  seventh  life,  excitement  suddenly  seized 
Alan.  Burr,  in  this  life  which  he  was  telling,  claimed 
to  be  an  Englishman  born  in  Liverpool.  He  had  been, 
he  said,  a  seaman  in  the  British  navy ;  he  had  been  pres- 
ent at  the  shelling  of  Alexandria ;  later,  because  of  some 
difficulty  which  he  glossed  over,  he  had  deserted  and 
had  come  to  "  the  States  " ;  he  had  been  first  a  deck- 
hand then  the  mate  of  a  tramp  schooner  on  the  lakes. 
Alan,  gazing  at  the  old  man,  felt  exultation  leaping  and 
throbbing  within  him.  He  recognized  this  "  life  " ;  he 
knew  in  advance  its  incidents.  This  life  which  old  Burr 
was  rehearsing  to  him  as  his  own,  was  the  actual  life  of 
Munro  Burkhalter,  one  of  the  men  on  Corvet's  list  re- 
garding whom  Alan  had  been  able  to  obtain  full  in- 
formation ! 

Alan  sped  below,  when  he  was  relieved  from  watch, 
and  got  out  the  clippings  left  by  Corvet  and  the  notes 
of  what  he  himself  had  learned  in  his  visits  to  the  homes 
of  these  people.  His  excitement  grew  greater  as  he 
pored  over  them ;  he  found  that  he  could  account,  with 
their  aid,  for  all  that  old  Burr  had  told  him.  Old 
Burr's  "  lives  "  were  not,  of  course,  his ;  yet  neither 
were  they  fictions.  They  —  their  incidents,  at  least  — 


264  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

were  actualities.  They  were  woven  from  the  lives  of 
those  upon  Corvet's  list!  Alan  felt  his  skin  prickling 
and  the  blood  beating  fast  in  his  temples.  How  could 
Burr  have  known  these  incidents?  Who  could  he  be 
to  know  them  all?  To  what  man,  but  one,  could  all 
of  them  be  known?  Was  old  Burr  .  .  .  Benjamin 
Corvet? 

Alan  could  give  no  certain  answer  to  that  question. 
He  could  not  find  any  definite  resemblance  in  Burr's 
placid  face  to  the  picture  of  Corvet  which  Constance 
had  shown  him.  Yet,  as  regarded  his  age  and  his  phys- 
ical characteristics,  there  was  nothing  to  make  his  iden- 
tity with  Benjamin  Corvet  impossible.  Sherrill  or 
others  who  had  known  Benjamin  Corvet  well,  might  be 
able  to  find  resemblances  which  Alan  could  not.  And, 
whether  Burr  was  or  was  not  Corvet,  he  was  undeniably 
some  one  to  whom  the  particulars  of  Corvet's  life  were 
known. 

Alan  telegraphed  that  day  to  Sherrill ;  but  when  the 
message  had  gone  doubt  seized  him.  He  awaited 
eagerly  the  coming  of  whoever  Sherrill  might  send  and 
the  revelations  regarding  Corvet  which  might  come 
then;  but  at  the  same  time  he  shrunk  from  that  reve- 
lation. He  himself  had  become,  he  knew,  wholly  of  the 
lakes  now ;  his  life,  whatever  his  future  might  be,  would 
be  concerned  with  them.  Yet  he  was  not  of  them  in 
the  way  he  would  have  wished  to  be;  he  was  no  more 
than  a  common  seaman. 

Benjamin  Corvet,  when  he  went  away,  had  tried  to 
leave  his  place  and  power  among  lakemen  to  Alan; 
Alan,  refusing  to  accept  what  Corvet  had  left  until 
Corvet's  reason  should  be  known,  had  felt  obliged  also 
to  refuse  friendship  with  the  Sherrills.  When  revela- 


OLD  BURR  OF  THE  FERRY     265 

tion  came,  would  it  make  possible  Alan's  acceptance  of 
the  place  Corvet  had  prepared  for  him,  or  would  it 
leave  him  where  he  was  ?  Would  it  bring  him  nearer  to 
Constance  Sherrill,  or  would  it  set  him  forever  away 
from  her? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A    GHOST    SHIP 

4 1/^  OLDER  some  to-night,  Conrad." 

1^   "Yes,  sir." 

^"^   "  Strait's  freezing  over,  they  say." 

"  Pretty  stiff  ice  outside  here  already,  sir." 

The  skipper  glanced  out  and  smiled  confidently  but 
without  further  comment;  yet  he  took  occasion  to  go 
down  and  pass  along  the  car  deck  and  observe  the  men 
who  under  direction  of  the  mate  were  locking  the  lugs 
under  the  car  wheels,  as  the  trains  came  on  board. 
The  wind,  which  had  risen  with  nightfall  to  a  gale  off 
the  water,  whipped  snow  with  it  which  swirled  and  back- 
eddied  with  the  switching  cars  into  the  great,  gaping 
stern  of  the  ferry. 

Officially,  and  to  chief  extent  in  actuality,  naviga- 
tion now  had  "  closed "  for  the  winter.  Further 
up  the  harbor,  beyond  Number  25,  glowed  the  white 
lanterns  marking  two  vessels  moored  and  "  laid  up  " 
till  spring;  another  was  still  in  the  active  process 
of  "  laying  up."  Marine  insurance,  as  regards  all 
ordinary  craft,  had  ceased;  and  the  Government 
at  sunrise,  five  days  before,  had  taken  the  warning  lights 
from  the  Straits  of  Mackinaw,  from  Ile-aux-Galets, 
from  north  Manitou,  and  the  Fox  Islands;  and  the 
light  at  Beaver  Island  had  but  five  nights  more  to  burn. 

Alan  followed  as  the  captain  went  below,  and  he  went 


A  GHOST  SHIP  267 

aft  between  the  car  tracks,  watching  old  Burr.  Having 
no  particular  duty  when  the  boat  was  in  dock,  old  Burr 
had  gone  toward  the  steamer  "  laying  up,"  and  now 
was  standing  watching  with  absorption  the  work  going 
on.  There  was  a  tug  a  little  farther  along,  with  steam 
up  and  black  smoke  pouring  from  its  short  funnel. 
Old  Burr  observed  this  boat  too  and  moved  up  a  little 
nearer.  Alan,  following  the  wheelsman,  came  opposite 
the  stern  of  the  freighter ;  the  snow  let  through  enough 
of  the  light  from  the  dock  to  show  the  name  Stough- 
ton.  It  was,  Alan  knew,  a  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spear- 
man ship.  He  moved  closer  to  old  Burr  and  watched 
him  more  intently. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  as  the  old  man 
halted  and,  looking  down  at  the  tug,  shook  his  head. 

"  They're  crossing,"  the  wheelsman  said  aloud,  but 
more  to  himself  than  to  Alan.  "  They're  laying  her 
up  here,"  he  jerked  his  head  toward  the  Stoughton. 
"  Then  they're  crossing  to  Manitowoc  on  the  tug." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  that?  "  Alan  cried. 

Burr  drew  up  his  shoulders  and  ducked  his  head 
down  as  a  gust  blew.  It  was  cold,  very  cold  indeed  in 
that  wind,  but  the  old  man  had  on  a  mackinaw  and, 
out  on  the  lake,  Alan  had  seen  him  on  deck  coatless  in 
weather  almost  as  cold  as  this. 

"It's  a  winter  storm,"  Alan  cried.  "It's  like  it 
that  way;  but  to-day's  the  15th,  not  the  5th  of  De- 
cember ! " 

"  That's  right,"  Burr  agreed.     "  That's  right." 

The  reply  was  absent,  as  though  Alan  had  stumbled 
upon  what  he  was  thinking,  and  Burr  had  no  thought 
yet  to  wonder  at  it. 

"  And   it's    the   Stoughton  they're   laying   up,   not 


268  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the — "  he  stopped  and  stared  at  Burr  to  let  him  sup- 
ply the  word  and,  when  the  old  man  did  not,  he  re- 
peated again — "not  the — " 

"  No,"  Burr  agreed  again,  as  though  the  name  had 
been  given.  "  No." 

"  It  was  the  Martha  Corvet  you  laid  up,  wasn't  it?  " 
Alan  cried  quickly.  "  Tell  -me  —  that  time  on  the  5th 
—  it  was  the  Martha  Corvet?  " 

Burr  jerked  away;  Alan  caught  him  again  and,  with 
physical  strength,  detained  him.  "Wasn't  it  that?" 
he  demanded.  "Answer  me;  it  was  the  Martha  Cor- 
vet? " 

The  wheelsman  struggled ;  he  seemed  suddenly  terri- 
fied with  the  terror  which,  instead  of  weakening,  sup- 
plied infuriated  strength.  He  threw  Alan  off  for  an 
instant  and  started  to  flee  back  toward  the  ferry;  and 
now  Alan  let  him  go,  only  following  a  few  steps  to 
make  sure  that  the  wheelsman  returned  to  Number 
25. 

Watching  old  Burr  until  he  was  aboard  the  ferry, 
Alan  spun  about  and  went  back  to  the  Stoughton. 

Work  of  laying  up  the  big  steamer  had  been  finished, 
and  in  the  snow-filled  dusk  her  crew  were  coming 
ashore.  Alan,  boarding,  went  to  the  captain's  cabin, 
where  he  found  the  Stoughton's  master  making  ready 
to  leave  the  ship.  The  captain,  a  man  of  forty-five 
or  fifty,  reminded  Alan  vaguely  of  one  of  the  ship- 
masters who  had  been  in  Spearman's  office  when  Alan 
first  went  there  in  the  spring.  If  he  had  been  there, 
he  showed  no  recollection  of  Alan  now,  but  good- 
humoredly  looked  up  for  the  stranger  to  state  his 
business. 

"  I'm  from  Number  25,"  Alan  introduced  himself. 


A  GHOST  SHIP  269 

"  This  is  a  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman  ship.  Do 
you  know  Mr.  Corvet  when  you  see  him,  sir?  " 

"Know  Ben  Corvet?"  the  captain  repeated.  The 
manner  of  the  young  man  from  the  car  ferry  told  him 
it  was  not  an  idle  question.  "  Yes ;  I  know  Ben  Corvet. 
I  ain't  seen  him  much  in  late  years." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  for  a  few  minutes  then, 
Captain?  "  Alan  asked.  As  the  skipper  stared  at  him 
and  hesitated,  Alan  made  explanation,  "  Mr.  Corvet 
lias  been  missing  for  months.  His  friends  have  said 
he's  been  away  somewhere  for  his  health ;  but  the  truth 
is,  he's  been  missing.  There's  a  man  I  want  you 
to  look  at,  Captain  —  if  you  used  to  know  Mr.  Cor- 
vet." 

"I've  heard  of  that."  The  captain  moved  alertly 
now.  "Where  is  he?" 

Alan  led  the  master  to  the  Ferry.  Old  Burr  had 
left  the  car  deck ;  they  found  him  on  his  way  to  the 
wheelhouse. 

The  S 'fought on' s  skipper  stared.  "That  the 
man?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Remember  to  allow  for  his  clothes  and 
his  not  being  shaved  and  that  something  has  hap- 
pened." 

The  St  ought  on' s  skipper  followed  to  the  wheelhouse 
and  spoke  to  Burr.  Alan's  blood  beat  fast  as  he 
watched  this  conversation.  Once  or  twice  more  the 
skipper  seemed  surprised;  but  it  was  plain  that  his 
first  interest  in  Burr  quickly  had  vanished;  when  he 
left  the  wheelhouse,  he  returned  to  Alan  indulgently. 
"You  thought  that  was  Mr.  Corvet?"  he  asked, 
amused. 

"You  don't  think  so?"  Alan  asked. 


270  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  Ben  Corvet  like  that  ?  Did  you  ever  see  Ben  Cor- 
vet?" 

"  Only  his  picture,"  Alan  confessed.  "  But  you 
looked  queer  when  you  first  saw  Burr." 

"  That  was  a  trick  of  his  eyes.  Say,  they  did  give 
me  a  start.  Ben  Corvet  had  just  that  sort  of  trick 
of  looking  through  a  man." 

"  And  his  eyes  were  like  that?  " 

"  Sure.     But  Ben  Corvet  couldn't  be  like  that !  " 

Alan  prepared  to  go  on  duty.  He  would  not  let 
himself  be  disappointed  by  the  skipper's  failure  to 
identify  old  Burr;  the  skipper  had  known  immediately 
at  sight  of  the  old  man  that  he  was  the  one  whom  Alan 
thought  was  Corvet,  and  he  had  found  a  definite  re- 
semblance. It  might  well  have  been  only  the  impossibil- 
ity of  believing  that  Corvet  could  have  become  like 
this  which  had  prevented  fuller  recognition.  Mr. 
Sherrill,  undoubtedly,  would  send  some  one  more  famil- 
iar with  Benjamin  Corvet  and  who  might  make  proper 
allowances. 

Alan  went  forward  to  his  post  as  a  blast  from  the 
steam  whistle  of  the  switching  engine,  announcing  that 
the  cars  all  were  on  board,  was  answered  by  a  warning 
blast  from  the  ferry.  On  the  car  decks  the  trains 
had  been  secured  in  place;  and,  because  of  the  rough- 
ness of  the  weather,  the  wheels  had  been  locked  upon 
the  tracks  with  additional  chains  as  well  as  with  the 
blocks  and  chains  usually  used.  Orders  now  sounded 
from  the  bridge ;  the  steel  deck  began  to  shake  with  the 
reverberations  of  the  engines ;  the  mooring  lines  were 
taken  in;  the  rails  upon  the  fantail  of  the  ferry  sepa- 
rated from  the  rails  upon  the  wharf,  and  clear  water 
showed  between.  Alan  took  up  his  slow  pace  as  look- 


A  GHOST  SHIP  271 

out  from  rail  to  rail  across  the  bow,  straining  his 
eyes  forward  into  the  thickness  of  the  snow-filled 
night. 

Because  of  the  severe  cold,  the  watches  had  been 
shortened.  Alan  would  be  relieved  from  time  to  time 
to  warm  himself,  and  then  he  would  return  to  duty 
again.  Old  Burr  at  the  wheel  would  be  relieved  and 
would  go  on  duty  at  the  same  hours  as  Alan  himself. 
Benjamin  Corvet!  The  fancy  reiterated  itself  to  him. 
Could  he  be  mistaken?  Was  that  man,  whose  eyes 
turned  alternately  from  the  compass  to  the  bow  of  the 
ferry  as  it  shifted  and  rose  and  fell,  the  same  who  had 
sat  in  that  lonely  chair  turned  toward  the  fireplace  in 
the  house  on  Astor  Street?  Were  those  hands,  which 
held  the  steamer  to  her  course,  the  hands  which  had 
written  to  Alan  in  secret  from  the  little  room  off  his 
bedroom  and  which  pasted  so  carefully  the  newspaper 
clippings  concealed  in  the  library? 

Regularly  at  the  end  of  every  minute,  a  blast  from 
the  steam  whistle  reverberated;  for  a  while,  signals 
from  the  shore  answered;  for  a  few  minutes  the  shore 
lights  glowed  through  the  snow.  Then  the  lights  were 
gone,  and  the  eddies  of  the  gale  ceased  to  bring  echoes 
of  the  obscuration  signals.  Steadily,  at  short,  sixty- 
second  intervals,  the  blast  of  Number  25's  warning 
burst  from  the  whistle;  then  that  too  stopped.  The 
great  ferry  was  on  the  lake  alone ;  in  her  course,  Num- 
ber 25  was  cutting  across  the  lanes  of  all  ordinary 
lake  travel;  but  now,  with  ordinary  navigation  closed, 
the  position  of  every  other  ship  upon  the  lake  was 
known  to  the  officers,  and  formal  signals  were  not 
thought  necessary.  Flat  floes,  driven  by  wind  and 
wave,  had  windrowed  in  their  course;  as  Number  25, 


272  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

which  was  capable  of  maintaining  two  thirds  its  open 
water  speed  when  running  through  solid  "  green  "  ice 
two  feet  thick,  met  this  obstruction,  its  undercut  bow 
rose  slightly;  the  ice,  crushed  down  and  to  the  sides, 
hurled,  pounding  and  scraping,  under  the  keel  and 
along  the  black,  steel  sides  of  the  ship;  Alan  could  hear 
the  hull  resounding  to  the  buffeting  as  it  hurled  the 
floes  away,  and  more  came,  or  the  wind  threw  them 
back.  The  water  was  washing  high  —  higher  than 
Alan  had  experienced  seas  before.  The  wind,  smash- 
ing almost  straight  across  the  lake  from  the  west, 
with  only  a  gust  or  two  from  the  north,  was  throwing 
up  the  water  in  great  rushing  ridges  on  which  the  bow 
of  Number  25  rose  jerkily  up  and  up,  suddenly  to 
fall,  as  the  support  passed  on,  so  that  the  next  wave 
washed  nearly  to  the  rail. 

Alan  faced  the  wind  with  mackinaw  buttoned  about 
his  throat;  to  make  certain  his  hearing,  his  ears  were 
unprotected.  They  numbed  frequently,  and  he  drew 
a  hand  out  of  the  glove  to  rub  them.  The  windows  to 
protect  the  wheelsman  had  been  dropped,  as  the  snow 
had  gathered  on  the  glass;  and  at  intervals,  as  he 
glanced  back,  he  could  see  old  Burr's  face  as  he 
switched  on  a  dim  light  to  look  at  the  compass.  The 
strange  placidity  which  usually  characterized  the  old 
man's  face  had  not  returned  to  it  since  Alan  had  spoken 
with  him  on  the  dock;  its  look  was  intent  and  queerly 
drawn.  Was  old  Burr  beginning  to  remember  —  re- 
member that  he  was  Benjamin  Corvet?  Alan  did  not 
believe  it  could  be  that ;  again  and  again  he  had  spoken 
Corvet's  name  to  him  without  effect.  Yet  there  must 
have  been  times  when,  if  he  was  actually  Corvet,  he  had 
remembered  who  he  was.  He  must  have  remembered 


A  GHOST  SHIP  273 

that  when  he  had  written  directions  to  some  one  to 
send  those  things  to  Constance  Sherrill;  or,  a  strange 
thought  had  come  to  Alan,  had  he  written  those  in- 
structions to  himself?  Had  there  been  a  moment  when 
he  had  been  so  much  himself  that  he  had  realized  that 
he  might  not  be  himself  again  and  so  had  written  the 
order  which  later,  mechanically,  he  had  obeyed?  This 
certainly  would  account  for  the  package  having  been 
mailed  at  Manitowoc  and  for  Alan's  failure  to  find 
out  by  whom  it  had  been  mailed.  It  would  account  too 
for  the  unknown  handwriting  upon  the  wrapper,  if 
some  one  on  the  ferry  had  addressed  the  package  for 
the  old  man.  He  must  inquire  whether  any  one  among 
the  crew  had  done  that. 

What  could  have  brought  back  that  moment  of  recol- 
lection to  Corvet,  Alan  wondered;  the  finding  of  the 
things  which  he  had  sent?  What  might  bring  another 
such  moment?  Would  his  seeing  the  Sherrills  again  — 
or  Spearman  —  act  to  restore  him? 

For  half  an  hour  Alan  paced  steadily  at  the  bow. 
The  storm  was  increasing  noticeably  in  fierceness;  the 
wind-driven  snowflakes  had  changed  to  hard  pellets 
which,  like  little  bullets,  cut  and  stung  the  face ;  and  it 
was  growing  colder.  From  a  cabin  window  came  the 
blue  flash  of  the  wireless,  which  had  been  silent  after 
notifying  the  shore  stations  of  their  departure.  It  had 
commenced  again;  this  was  unusual.  Something  still 
more  unusual  followed  at  once;  the  direction  of  the 
gale  seemed  slowly  to  shift,  and  with  it  the  wash  of  the 
water;  instead  of  the  wind  and  the  waves  coming  from 
dead  ahead  now,  they  moved  to  the  port  beam,  and 
Number  25,  still  pitching  with  the  thrust  through  the 
seas,  also  began  to  roll.  This  meant,  of  course,  that 


274  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  steamer  had  changed  its  course  and  was  making 
almost  due  north.  It  seemed  to  Alan  to  force  its 
engines  faster ;  the  deck  vibrated  more.  Alan  had  not 
heard  the  orders  for  this  change  and  could  only  specu- 
late as  to  what  it  might  mean. 

His  relief  came  after  a  few  minutes  more. 

"  Where  are  we  heading?  "  Alan  asked. 

"  Radio,"  the  relief  announced.  "  The  H.  C.  Rich- 
ardson calling;  she's  up  by  the  Manitous." 

"What  sort  of  trouble?" 

"  She's  not  in  trouble ;  it's  another  ship." 

"What  ship?" 

"  No  word  as  to  that." 

Alan,  not  delaying  to  question  further,  went  back  to 
the  cabins. 

These  stretched  aft,  behind  the  bridge,  along  the 
upper  deck,  some  score  on  each  side  of  the  ship ;  they 
had  accommodations  for  almost  a  hundred  passengers ; 
but  on  this  crossing  only  a  few  were  occupied.  Alan 
had  noticed  some  half  dozen  men  —  business  men,  no 
doubt,  forced  to  make  the  crossing  and,  one  of  them,  a 
Catholic  priest,  returning  probably  to  some  mission  in 
the  north ;  he  had  seen  no  women  among  them.  A  little 
group  of  passengers  were  gathered  now  in  the  door  of 
or  just  outside  the  wireless  cabin,  which  was  one  of  the 
row  on  the  starboard  side.  Stewards  stood  with  them 
and  the  cabin  maid ;  within,  and  bending  over  the  table 
with  the  radio  instrument,  was  the  operator  with  the 
second  officer  beside  him.  The  violet  spark  was  rasp- 
ing, and  the  operator,  his  receivers  strapped  over  his 
ears,  strained  to  listen.  He  got  no  reply,  evidently, 
and  he  struck  his  key  again;  now,  as  he  listened,  he 
wrote  slowly  on  a  pad. 


A  GHOST  SHIP  275 

"You  got  'em?"  some  one  cried.  "You  got  'em 
now?  " 

The  operator  continued  to  write;  the  second  mate, 
reading,  shook  his  head,  "  It's  only  the  Richardson 
again." 

"  What  is  it?  "  Alan  asked  the  officer. 

"  The  Richardson  heard  four  blasts  of  a  steam 
whistle  about  an  hour  ago  when  she  was  opposite  the 
Manitous.  She  answered  with  the  whistle  and  turned 
toward  the  blasts.  She  couldn't  find  any  ship."  The 
officer's  reply  was  interrupted  by  some  of  the  others. 
"  Then  .  .  .  that  was  a  few  minutes  ago  .  .  .  they 
heard  the  four  long  again.  .  .  .  They'd  tried  to  pick 
up  the  other  ship  with  radio  before.  .  .  .  Yes ;  we  got 
that  here.  .  .  .  Tried  again  and  got  no  answer.  .  .  . 
But  they  heard  the  blasts  for  half  an  hour.  .  .  .  They 
said  they  seemed  to  be  almost  beside  the  ship  once.  .  .  . 
But  they  didn't  see  anything.  Then  the  blasts  stopped 
.  .  .  sudden,  cut  off  short  in  the  middle  as  though 
something  happened.  .  .  .  She  was  blowing  distress  all 
right.  .  .  .  The  Richardson's  searching  again  now. 
.  .  .  Yes,  she's  searching  for  boats." 

"Any  one  else  answered?"  Alan  asked. 

"  Shore  stations  on  both  sides." 

"Do  they  know  what  ship  it  is?  " 

"No." 

"  What  ship  might  be  there  now?  " 
v  The  officer  could  not  answer  that.  He  had  known 
where  the  Richardson  must  be;  he  knew  of  no  other 
likely  to  be  there  at  this  season.  The  spray  from  the 
waves  had  frozen  upon  Alan ;  ice  gleamed  and  glinted 
from  the  rail  and  from  the  deck.  Alan's  shoulders 
drew  up  in  a  spasm.  The  Richardson,  they  said,  was 


276  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

looking  for  boats ;  how  long  could  men  live  in  little 
boats  exposed  to  that  gale  and  cold? 

He  turned  back  to  the  others  about  the  radio  cabin ; 
the  glow  from  within  showed  him  faces  as  gray  as  his ; 
it  lighted  a  face  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  door  —  a 
face  haggard  with  dreadful  fright.  Old  Burr  jerked 
about  as  Alan  spoke  to  him  and 'moved  away  alone; 
Alan  followed  him  and  seized  his  arm. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Alan  demanded,  holding  to 
him. 

"The  four  blasts!"  the  wheelsman  repeated. 
"  They  heard  the  four  blasts !  "  He  iterated  it  once  more. 

"Yes,"  Alan  urged.     "Why  not?" 

"  But  where  no  ship  ought  to  be ;  so  they  couldn't 
find  the  ship  —  they  couldn't  find  the  ship !  "  Terror, 
of  awful  abjectness,  came  over  the  old  man.  He  freed 
himself  from  Alan  and  went  forward. 

Alan  followed  him  to  the  quarters  of  the  crew,  where 
night  lunch  for  the  men  relieved  from  watch  had  been 
set  out,  and  took  a  seat  at  the  table  opposite  him. 
The  louder  echoing  of  the  steel  hull  and  the  roll  and 
pitching  of  the  vessel,  which  set  the  table  with  its  dishes 
swaying,  showed  that  the  sea  was  still  increasing,  and 
also  that  they  were  now  meeting  heavier  ice.  At  the 
table  men  computed  that  Number  25  had  now  made 
some  twenty  miles  north  off  its  course,  and  must  there- 
fore be  approaching  the  neighborhood  where  the  dis- 
tress signals  had  been  heard ;  they  speculated  uselessly 
as  to  what  ship  could  have  been  in  that  part  of  the  lake 
and  made  the  signals.  Old  Burr  took  no  part  in  this 
conversation,  but  listened  to  it  with  frightened  eyes, 
and  presently  got  up  and  went  away,  leaving  his  coffee 
unfinished. 


A  GHOST  SHIP  277 

Number  25  was  blowing  its  steam  whistle  again  at 
the  end  of  every  minute. 

Alan,  after  taking  a  second  cup  of  coffee,  went  aft 
to  the  car  deck.  The  roar  and  echoing  tumult  of  the 
ice  against  the  hull  here  drowned  all  other  sounds. 
The  thirty-two  freight  cars,  in  their  four  long  lines, 
stood  wedged  and  chained  and  blocked  in  place;  they 
tipped  and  tilted,  rolled  and  swayed  like  the  stanch- 
ions and  sides  of  the  ship,  fixed  and  secure.  Jacks  on 
the  steel  deck  under  the  edges  of  the  cars,  kept  them 
from  rocking  on  their  trucks.  Men  paced  watchfully 
between  the  tracks,  observing  the  movement  of  the  cars. 
The  cars  creaked  and  groaned,  as  they  worked  a  little 
this  way  and  that;  the  men  sprang  with  sledges  and 
drove  the  blocks  tight  again  or  took  an  additional  turn 
upon  the  jacks. 

As  Alan  ascended  and  went  forward  to  his  duty,  the 
increase  in  the  severity  of  the  gale  was  very  evident; 
the  thermometer,  the  wheelsman  said,  had  dropped 
below  zero.  Ice  was  making  rapidly  on  the  hull  of  the 
ferry,  where  the  spray,  flying  thicker  through  the  snow, 
was  freezing  as  it  struck.  The  deck  was  all  ice  now 
underfoot,  and  the  rails  were  swollen  to  great  gleaming 
slabs  which  joined  and  grew  together;  a  parapet  of  ice 
had  appeared  on  the  bow;  and  all  about  the  swirling 
snow  screen  shut  off  everything.  A  searchlight  which 
had  flared  from  the  bridge  while  Alan  was  below, 
pierced  that  screen  not  a  ship's  length  ahead,  or  on  the 
beam,  before  the  glare  dimmed  to  a  glow  which  served 
to  show  no  more  than  the  fine,  flying  pellets  of  the 
storm.  Except  for  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  the  water, 
there  had  been  no  echo  from  beyond  that  screen  since 
the  shore  signals  were  lost ;  now  a  low,  far-away  sound 


fen  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

came  down  the  wind;  it  maintained  itself  for  a  few  sec- 
onds, ceased,  and  then  came  again,  and  continued  at 
uneven  intervals  longer  than  the  timed  blasts  of  Num- 
ber 25's  whistle.  It  might  be  the  horn  of  some  strug- 
gling sailing  vessel,  which  in  spite  of  the  storm  and  the 
closed  season  was  braving  the  seas;  at  the  end  of  each 
interval  of  silence,  the  horn  blew  twice  now;  the  echo 
came  abeam,  passed  astern,  and  was  no  longer  to  be 
heard.  How  far  away  its  origin  had  been,  Alan  could 
only  guess;  probably  the  sailing  vessel,  away  to  wind- 
ward, had  not  heard  the  whistle  of  Number  25  at  alL 

Alan  saw  old  Burr  who,  on  his  way  to  the  wheel- 
house,  had  halted  to  listen  too.  For  several  minutes 
the  old  man  stood  motionless;  be  came  on  again  and 
stopped  to  listen.  There  had  been  no  sound  for  quite 
five  minutes  now. 

"Yon  bear  'em?"  Burr's  voice  quavered  in  Alan's 
ear.  "  You  hear  'em?  " 

"What?"  Alan  asked. 

"The  four  blasts!  You  hear 'em  now?  The  four 
blasts!" 

Burr  was  straining  as  be  listened,  and  Alan  stood 
stiD  too;  no  sound  came  to  him  but  the  noise  of  the 
storm.  "  No,"  be  replied.  « I  don't  hear  anything. 
Do  you  hear  them  now?  " 

Burr  stood  beside  him  without  making  reply;  the 
searchlight,  which  had  been  pointed  abeam,  shot  its 
glare  forward,  and  Alan  could  see  Burr's  face  in  the 
dancing  reflection  of  the  flare.  The  man  had  never 
more  plainly  resembled  the  picture  of  Benjamin  Corvet ; 
that  which  had  been  in  the  picture,  that  strange  sensa- 
tion of  something  haunting  him,  was  upon  this  man's 
face,  a  thousand  times  intensified;  but  instead  of  dis- 


A  GHOST  SHIP  279 

torting  the  features  away  from  all  likeness  to  the  pic- 
ture, it  made  it  grotesquely  identical. 

And  Burr  was  hearing  something — something  dis- 
tinct and  terrifying;  but  he  seemed  not  surprised,  but 
rather  satisfied  that  Alan  had  not  heard.  He  nodded 
iiis  head  at  Alan's  denial,  and,  without  reply  to  Alan's 
demand,  he  stood  listening.  Something  bent  him  for- 
ward; he  straightened;  again  the  something  came; 
again  he  straightened.  Four  times  Alan  counted  the 
motions.  Burr  was  hearing  again  the  four  long  blasts 
of  distress!  But  there  was  no  noise  but  the  gale. 
"The  four  blasts!"  He  recalled  old  Burr's  terror 
outside  the  radio  cabin.  The  old  man  was  hearing 
blasts  which  were  not  blown ! 

He  moved  on  and  took  the  wheel.  He  was  a  good 
wheelsman ;  the  vessel  seemed  to  be  steadier  on  her 
course  and,  somehow,  to  steam  easier  when  the  old 
man  steered.  His  illusions  of  hearing  could  do  no 
harm,  Alan  considered;  they  were  of  concern  only  to 
Burr  and  to  him. 

Alan,  relieving  the  lookout  at  the  bow,  stood  on 
watch  again.  The  ferry  thrust  on  alone;  in  the  wire- 
less cabin  the  flame  played  steadily.  They  had  been 
able  to  get  the  shore  stations  again  on  both  sides  of  the 
lake  and  also  the  Richardson.  As  the  ferry  had 
worked  northward,  the  Richardson  had  been  working 
north  too,  evidently  under  the  impression  that  the 
vessel  in  distress,  if  it  had  headway,  was  moving  in  that 
direction.  By  its  position,  which  the  Richardson  gave, 
the  steamers  were  about  twenty  miles  apart. 

Alan  fought  to  keep  his  thought  all  to  his  duty ;  they 
must  be  now  very  nearly  at  the  position  where  the  Rich- 
ardson last  had  heard  the  four  long  blasts ;  searching 


282  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

now,  and  he  made  no  resistance  to  the  skipper's  blows ; 
but  the  skipper,  in  his  frenzy,  struck  him  again  and 
knocked  him  to  the  deck. 

Slowly,  steadily,  Number  25  was  responding  to  her 
helm.  The  bow  pointed  away,  and  the  beam  of  the 
ferry  came  beside  the  beam  of  the  silent  steamer ;  they 
were  very  close  now,  so  close  that  the  searchlight,  which 
had  turned  to  keep  on,  the  other  vessel,  shot  above  its 
shimmering  deck  and  lighted  only  the  spars ;  and,  as 
the  water  rose  and  fell  between  them,  the  ships  sucked 
closer.  Number  25  shook  with  an  effort;  it  seemed 
opposing  with  all  the  power  of  its  screws  some  force 
fatally  drawing  it  on  —  opposing  with  the  last  resist- 
ance before  giving  way.  Then,  as  the  water  fell  again, 
the  ferry  seemed  to  slip  and  be  drawn  toward  the  other 
vessel;  they  mounted,  side  by  side  .  .  .  crashed  .  .  . 
recoiled  .  .  .  crashed  again.  That  second  crash 
threw  all  who  had  nothing  to  hold  by,  flat  upon  the 
deck;  then  Number  25  moved  by;  astern  her  now  the 
silent  steamer  vanished  in  the  snow. 

Gongs  boomed  below ;  through  the  new  confusion  and 
the  cries  of  men,  orders  began  to  become  audible. 
Alan,  scrambling  to  his  knees,  put  an  arm  under  old 
Burr,  half  raising  him ;  the  form  encircled  by  his  arm 
struggled  up.  The  skipper,  who  had  knocked  Burr 
away  from  the  wheel,  ignored  him  now.  The  old  man, 
dragging  himself  up  and  holding  to  Alan,  was  staring 
with  terror  at  the  snow  screen  behind  which  the  vessel 
had  disappeared.  His  lips  moved.' 

"  It  was  a  ship! "  he  said;  he  seemed  3Deaking  more 
to  himself  than  to  Alan. 

"  Yes " ;  Alan  said.  "  It  was  a  ship ;  and  you 
thought  — " 


A  GHOST  SHIP  283 

"  It  wasn't  there !  "  the  wheelsman  cried.  "  It's  — 
it's  been  there  all  the  time  all  night,  and  I'd  —  I'd 
steered  through  it  ten  times,  twenty  times,  every  few 
minutes ;  and  then  —  that  time  it  was  a  ship !  " 

Alan's  excitement  grew  greater ;  ho  seized  the  old  man 
again.  "  You  thought  it  was  the  Mizeaka!  "  Alan  ex- 
claimed. "  The  Miwaka!  And  you  tried  to  steer 
through  it  again." 

"  The  Miwaka!  "  old  Burr's  lips  reiterated  the  word. 
"  Yes ;  yes  —  the  Miwaka!  " 

He  struggled,  writhing  with  some  agony  not  physi- 
cal. Alan  tried  to  hold  him,  but  now  the  old  man  was 
beside  himself  with  dismay.  He  broke  away  and 
started  aft.  The  captain's  voice  recalled  Alan  to  him- 
self, as  he  was  about  to  follow,  and  he  turned  back  to 
the  wheelhouse. 

The  mate  was  at  the  wheel.  He  shouted  to  the  cap- 
tain about  following  the  other  ship ;  neither  of  them 
had  seen  sign  of  any  one  aboard  it.  "  Derelict ! "  the 
skipper  thought.  The  mate  was  swinging  Number  25 
about  to  follow  and  look  at  the  ship  again;  and  the 
searchlight  beam  swept  back  and  forth  through  the 
snow ;  the  blasts  of  the  steam  whistle,  which  had  ceased 
after  the  collision,  burst  out  again.  As  before,  no 
response  came  from  behind  the  snow.  The  searchlight 
picked  up  the  silent  ship  again;  it  had  settled  down 
deeper  now  by  the  bow,  Alan  saw;  the  blow  from  Num- 
ber 25  had  robbed  it  of  its  last  buoyancy ;  it  was  sink- 
ing. It  dove  down,  then  rose  a  little  —  sounds  came 
from  it  now  —  sudden,  explosive  sounds ;  air  pressure 
within  hurled  up  a  hatch ;  the  tops  of  the  cabins  blew 
off,  and  the  stem  of  the  ship  slipped  down  deep  again, 
stopped,  then  dove  without  halt  or  recovery  this  time, 


282  ,     THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

now,  and  he  made  no  resistance  to  the  skipper's  blows ; 
but  the  skipper,  in  his  frenzy,  struck  him  again  and 
knocked  him  to  the  deck. 

Slowly,  steadily,  Number  25  was  responding  to  her 
helm.  The  bow  pointed  away,  and  the  beam  of  the 
ferry  came  beside  the  beam  of  the  silent  steamer;  they 
were  very  close  now,  so  close  that  the  searchlight,  which 
had  turned  to  keep  on,  the  other  vessel,  shot  above  its 
shimmering  deck  and  lighted  only  the  spars ;  and,  as 
the  water  rose  and  fell  between  them,  the  ships  sucked 
closer.  Number  25  shook  with  an  effort;  it  seemed 
opposing  with  all  the  power  of  its  screws  some  force 
fatally  drawing  it  on  —  opposing  with  the  last  resist- 
ance before  giving  way.  Then,  as  the  water  fell  again, 
the  ferry  seemed  to  slip  and  be  drawn  toward  the  other 
vessel;  they  mounted,  side  by  side  .  .  .  crashed  .  .  . 
recoiled  .  .  .  crashed  again.  That  second  crash 
threw  all  who  had  nothing  to  hold  by,  flat  upon  the 
deck;  then  Number  25  moved  by;  astern  her  now  the 
silent  steamer  vanished  in  the  snow. 

Gongs  boomed  below ;  through  the  new  confusion  and 
the  cries  of  men,  orders  began  to  become  audible. 
Alan,  scrambling  to  his  knees,  put  an  arm  under  old 
Burr,  half  raising  him ;  the  form  encircled  by  his  arm 
struggled  up.  The  skipper,  who  had  knocked  Burr 
away  from  the  wheel,  ignored  him  now.  The  old  man, 
dragging  himself  up  and  holding  to  Alan,  was  staring 
with  terror  at  the  snow  screen  behind  which  the  vessel 
had  disappeared.  His  lips  moved.- 

"  It  was  a  ship ! "  he  said ;  he  seemed  sneaking  more 
to  himself  than  to  Alan. 

"  Yes " ;  Alan  said.  "  It  was  a  ship ;  and  you 
thought  — " 


A  GHOST  SHIP  283 

"It  wasn't  there!"  the  wheelsman  cried.  "It's- 
it's  been  there  all  the  time  all  night,  and  I'd  —  I'd 
steered  through  it  ten  times,  twenty  times,  every  few 
minutes ;  and  then  —  that  time  it  was  a  ship !  " 

Alan's  excitement  grew  greater ;  he  seized  the  old  man 
again.  "  You  thought  it  was  the  Miwaka!  "  Alan  ex- 
claimed. "  The  Miwakat  And  you  tried  to  steer 
through  it  again." 

"  The  MiwaJca!  "  old  Burr's  lips  reiterated  the  word. 
"  Yes ;  yes  —  the  Mirvaka!  " 

He  struggled,  writhing  with  some  agony  not  physi- 
cal. Alan  tried  to  hold  him,  but  now  the  old  man  was 
beside  himself  with  dismay.  He  broke  away  and 
started  aft.  The  captain's  voice  recalled  Alan  to  him- 
self, as  he  was  about  to  follow,  and  he  turned  back  to 
the  wheelhouse. 

The  mate  was  at  the  wheel.  He  shouted  to  the  cap- 
tain about  following  the  other  ship ;  neither  of  them 
had  seen  sign  of  any  one  aboard  it.  "  Derelict ! "  the 
skipper  thought.  The  mate  was  swinging  Number  25 
about  to  follow  and  look  at  the  ship  again;  and  the 
searchlight  beam  swept  back  and  forth  through  the 
snow ;  the  blasts  of  the  steam  whistle,  which  had  ceased 
after  the  collision,  burst  out  again.  As  before,  no 
response  came  from  behind  the  snow.  The  searchlight 
picked  up  the  silent  ship  again;  it  had  settled  down 
deeper  now  by  the  bow,  Alan  saw;  the  blow  from  Num- 
ber 25  had  robbed  it  of  its  last  buoyancy ;  it  was  sink- 
ing. It  dove  down,  then  rose  a  little  —  sounds  came 
from  it  now  —  sudden,  explosive  sounds ;  air  pressure 
within  hurled  up  a  hatch ;  the  tops  of  the  cabins  blew 
off,  and  the  stem  of  the  ship  slipped  down  deep  again, 
stopped,  then  dove  without  halt  or  recovery  this  time, 


284  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

and  the  stern,  upraised  with  the  screw  motionless,  met 
the  high  wash  of  a  wave,  and  went  down  with  it  and  dis- 
appeared. 

No  man  had  shown  himself ;  no  shout  had  been  heard ; 
no  little  boat  was  seen  or  signalled. 

The  second  officer,  who  had  gone  below  to  ascertain 
the  damage  done  to  the  ferry,  came  up  to  report.  Two 
of  the  compartments,  those  which  had  taken  the  crush 
of  the  collision,  had  flooded  instantly;  the  bulkheads 
were  holding  —  only  leaking  a  little,  the  officer  de- 
clared. Water  was  coming  into  a  third  compartment, 
that  at  the  stern ;  the  pumps  were  fighting  this  water. 
The  shock  had  sprung  seams  elsewhere ;  but  if  the  after 
compartment  did  not  fill,  the  pumps  might  handle  the 
rest. 

Soddenness  already  was  coming  into  the  response  of 
Number  25  to  the  lift  of  the  waves;  the  ferry  rolled 
less  to  the  right  as  she  came  about,  beam  to  the  waves, 
and  she  dropped  away  more  dully  and  deeply  to  the 
left ;  the  ship  was  listing  to  port  and  the  lift  of  the  ice- 
heaped  bow  told  of  settling  by  the  stern.  Slowly  Num- 
ber 25  circled  about,  her  engines  holding  bare  headway ; 
the  radio,  Alan  heard,  was  sending  to  the  Richardson 
and  to  the  shore  stations  word  of  the  finding  and  sink- 
ing of  the  ship  and  of  the  damage  done  to  Number  25 ; 
whether  that  damage  yet  was  described  in  the  dis- 
patches as  disaster,  Alan  did  not  know.  The  steam 
whistle,  which  continued  to  roar,  maintained  the  single, 
separated  blasts  of  a  ship  still  seaworthy  and  able  to 
steer  and  even  to  give  assistance.  Alan  was  at  the 
bow  again  on  lookout  duty,  ordered  to  listen  and  to 
look  for  the  little  boats. 

He  gave  to  that  duty  all  his  conscious  attention ;  but 


A  GHOST  SHIP  285 

through  his  thought,  whether  he  willed  it  or  not,  ran 
a  riotous  exultation.  As  he  paced  from  side  to  side 
and  hailed  and  answered  hails  from  the  bridge,  and 
while  he  strained  for  sight  and  hearing  through  the 
gale-swept  snow,  the  leaping  pulse  within  repeated, 
"  I've  found  him !  I've  found  him ! "  Alan  held  no 
longer  possibility  of  doubt  of  old  Burr's  identity  with 
Benjamin  Corvet,  since  the  old  man  had  made  plain  to 
him  that  he  was  haunted  by  the  M'w&aka.  Since  that 
night  in  the  house  on  Astor  Street,  when  Spearman 
shouted  to  Alan  that  name,  everything  having  to  do 
with  the  secret  of  Benjamin  Corvet's  life  had  led,  so  far 
as  Alan  could  follow  it,  to  the  Miwaka;  all  the  change, 
which  Sherrill  described  but  could  not  account  for,  Alan 
had  laid  to  that.  Corvet  only  could  have  been  so 
haunted  by  that  ghostly  ship,  and  there  had  been  guilt 
of  some  awful  sort  in  the  old  man's  cry.  Alan  had 
found  the  man  who  had  sent  him  away  to  Kansas  when 
he  was  a  child,  who  had  supported  him  there  and  then, 
at  last,  sent  for  him ;  who  had  disappeared  at  his  com- 
ing and  left  him  all  his  possessions  and  his  heritage  of 
disgrace,  who  had  paid  blackmail  to  Luke,  and  who  had 
sent,  last,  Captain  Stafford's  watch  and  the  ring  which 
came  with  it  —  the  wedding  ring. 

Alan  pulled  his  hand  from  his  glove  and  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  the  little  band  of  gold.  What  would  that 
mean  to  him  now;  what  of  that  was  he  to  learn?  And, 
as  he  thought  of  that,  Constance  Sherrill  came  more 
insistently  before  him.  What  was  he  to  learn  for  her, 
for  his  friend  and  Benjamin  Corvet's  friend,  whom  he, 
Uncle  Benny,  had  warned  not  to  care  for  Henry  Spear- 
man, and  then  had  gone  away  to  leave  her  to  marry 
him?  For  she  was  to  marry  him,  Alan  had  read. 


286  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

It  was  with  this  that  cold  terror  suddenly  closed  over 
him.  Would  he  learn  anything  now  from  Benjamin 
Corvet,  though  he  had  found  him?  Only  for  an  in- 
stant—  a  fleeting  instant  —  had  Benjamin  Corvet's 
brain  become  clear  as  to  the  cause  of  his  hallucination ; 
consternation  had  overwhelmed  him  then,  and  he 
struggled  free  to  attempt  to  mend  the  damage  he  had 
done. 

More  serious  damage  than  first  reported!  The 
pumps  certainly  must  be  losing  their  fight  with  the 
water  in  the  port  compartment  aft ;  for  the  bow  stead- 
ily was  lifting,  the  stern  sinking.  The  starboard  rail 
too  was  raised,  and  the  list  had  become  so  sharp 
that  water  washed  the  deck  abaft  the  forecastle  to 
port.  And  the  ferry  was  pointed  straight  into  the  gale 
now;  long  ago  she  had  ceased  to  circle  and  steam 
slowly  in  search  for  boats ;  she  struggled  with  all  her 
power  against  the  wind  and  the  seas,  a  desperate  insist- 
ence throbbing  in  the  thrusts  of  the  engines ;  for  Num- 
ber 25  was  fleeing  —  fleeing  for  the  western  shore. 
She  dared  not  turn  to  the  nearer  eastern  shore  to 
expose  that  shattered  stern  to  the  seas. 

Four  bells  beat  behind  Alan ;  it  was  two  o'clock.  Re- 
lief should  have  come  long  before ;  but  no  one  came. 
He  was  numbed  now ;  ice  from  the  spray  crackled  upon 
his  clothing  when  he  moved,  and  it  fell  in  flakes  upon 
the  deck.  The  stark  figure  on  the  bridge  was  that  of 
the  second  officer ;  so  the  thing  which  was  happening 
below  —  the  thing  which  was  sending  strange,  violent, 
wanton  tremors  through  the  ship  —  was  serious  enough 
to  call  the  skipper  below,  to  make  him  abandon  the 
bridge  at  this  time !  The  tremors,  quite  distinct  from 
the  steady  tremble  of  the  engines  and  the  thudding  of 


A  GHOST  SHIP  287 

the  pumps,  came  again.  Alan,  feeling  them,  jerked  up 
and  stamped  and  beat  his  arms  to  regain  sensation. 
Some  one  stumbled  toward  him  from  the  cabins  now,  a 
short  figure  in  a  great  coat.  It  was  a  woman,  he  saw 
as  she  hailed  him  —  the  cabin  maid. 

"  Fm  taking  your  place ! "  she  shouted  to  Alan. 
"  You're  wanted  —  every  one's  wanted  on  the  car  deck ! 
The  cars — "  The  gale  and  her  fright  stopped  her 
voice  as  she  struggled  for  speech,  "  The  cars  —  the 
cars  are  loose !  " 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  HE    KILLED    YOUR    FATHER  " 

ALAN  ran  aft  along  the  starboard  side,  catching 
at  the  rail  as  the  deck  tilted;  the  sounds  within 
the  hull  and  the  tremors  following  each  sound 
came  to  him  more  distinctly  as  he  advanced.     Taking 
the  shortest  way  to  the  car  deck,  he  turned  into  the 
cabins  to  reach  the  passengers'  companionway.     The 
noises   from  the  car  deck,  no  longer  muffled  by  the 
cabins,  clanged  and  resounded  in  terrible  tumult;  with 
the  clang  and  rumble  of  metal,  rose  shouts  and  roars 
of  men. 

To  liberate  and  throw  overboard  heavily  loaded  cars 
from  an  endangered  ship  was  so  desperate  an  under- 
taking and  so  certain  to  cost  life  that  men  attempted 
it  only  in  final  extremities,  when  the  ship  must  be 
lightened  at  any  cost.  Alan  had  never  seen  the  effect 
of  such  an  attempt,  but  he  had  heard  of  it  as  the  fear 
which  sat  always  on  the  hearts  of  the  men  who  navi- 
gate the  ferries  —  the  cars  loose  on  a  rolling,  lurching 
ship!  He  was  going  to  that  now.  Two  figures  ap- 
peared before  him,  one  half  supporting,  half  dragging 
the  other.  Alan  sprang  and  offered  aid;  but  the  in- 
jured man  called  to  him  to  go  on;  others  needed  him. 
Alan  went  past  them  and  down  the  steps  to  the  car 
deck.  Half-way  down,  the  priest  whom  he  had  noticed 
among  the  passengers  stood  staring  aft,  a  tense,  black 


"  HE  KILLED  YOUR  FATHER  "         289 

figure;  beside  him  other  passengers  were  clinging  to 
the  handrail  and  staring  down  in  awestruck  fascination. 
The  lowest  steps  had  been  crushed  back  and  half  up- 
torn;  some  monstrous,  inanimate  thing  was  battering 
about  below ;  but  the  space  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  was 
clear  at  that  moment.  Alan  leaped  over  the  ruin  of  the 
steps  and  down  upon  the  car  deck. 

A  giant  iron  casting  six  feet  high  and  yards  across 
and  tons  in  weight,  tumbled  and  ground  before  him;  it 
was  this  which  had  swept  away  the  steps ;  he  had  seen 
it,  with  two  others  like  it,  upon  a  flat  car  which  had 
been  shunted  upon  one  of  the  tracks  on  the  starboard 
side  of  the  ferry,  one  of  the  tracks  on  his  left  now  as 
he  faced  the  stern.  He  leaped  upon  and  over  the 
great  casting,  which  turned  and  spun  with  the  motion 
of  the  ship  as  he  vaulted  it.  The  car  deck  was  a  pitch- 
ing, swaying  slope ;  the  cars  nearest  him  were  still  upon 
their  tracks,  but  they  tilted  and  swayed  uglily  from 
side  to  side;  the  jacks  were  gone  from  under  them;  the 
next  cars  already  were  hurled  from  the  rails,  their 
wheels  screaming  on  the  steel  deck,  clanging  and  thud- 
ding together  in  their  couplings. 

Alan  ran  aft  between  them.  All  the  crew  who  could 
be  called  from  deck  and  engine  room  and  firehold  were 
struggling  at  the  fantail,  under  the  direction  of  the 
captain,  to  throw  off  the  cars.  The  mate  was  working 
as  one  of  the  men,  and  with  him  was  Benjamin  Corvet. 
The  crew  already  must  have  loosened  and  thrown  over 
the  stern  three  cars  from  the  two  tracks  on  the  port 
side;  for  there  was  a  space  vacant;  and  as  the  train 
charged  into  that  space  and  the  men  threw  themselves 
upon  it,  Alan  leaped  with  them. 

The    leading    car —  a    box    car,    heavily    laden  — 


290  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

swayed  and  shrieked  with  the  pitching  of  the  ship. 
Corvet  sprang  between  it  and  the  car  coupled  behind; 
he  drew  out  the  pin  from  the  coupling,  and  the  men 
with  pinch-bars  attacked  the  car  to  isolate  it  and  force 
it  aft  along  the  track.  It  moved  slowly  at  first; 
then  leaped  its  length;  sharply  with  the  lift  of  the 
deck,  it  stopped,  toppled  toward  the  men  who,  yelling 
to  one  another,  scrambled  away.  The  hundred-ton 
mass  swung  from  side  to  side ;  the  ship  dropped  swiftly 
to  starboard,  and  the  stern  went  down ;  the  car 
charged,  and  its  aftermost  wheels  left  the  deck;  it 
swung  about,  slewed,  and  jammed  across  both  port 
tracks.  The  men  attacked  it  with  dismay;  Corvet's 
shout  called  them  away  and  rallied  them  farther  back; 
they  ran  with  him  to  the  car  from  which  he  had  un- 
coupled it. 

It  was  a  flat  car  laden  with  steel  beams.  At  Corvet's 
command,  the  crew  ranged  themselves  beside  it  with 
bars.  The  bow  of  the  ferry  rose  to  some  great  wave 
and,  with  a  cry  to  the  men,  Corvet  pulled  the  pin.  The 
others  thrust  with  their  bars,  and  the  car  slid  down  the 
sloping  track;  and  Corvet,  caught  by  some  lashing  of 
the  beams,  came  with  it.  The  car  crashed  into  the  box 
car,  splintered  it,  turned  it,  shoved  it,  and  thrust  it 
over  the  f antail  into  the  water ;  the  flat  car,  telescoped 
into  it,  was  dragged  after.  Alan  leaped  upon  it  and 
catching  at  Corvet,  freed  him  and  flung  him  down  to  the 
deck,  and  dropped  with  him.  A  cheer  rose  as  the  car 
cleared  the  fantail,  dove,  and  disappeared. 

Alan  clambered  to  his  feet.  Corvet  already  was  back 
among  the  cars  again,  shouting  orders;  the  mate  and 
the  men  who  had  followed  him  before  leaped  at  his 
yells.  The  lurch  which  had  cleared  the  two  cars 


"  HE  KILLED  YOUR  FATHER  "         291 

together  had  jumped  others  away  from  the  rails. 
They  hurtled  from  side  to  side,  splintering  against  the 
stanchions  which  stayed  them  from  crashing  across 
the  center  line  of  the  ship;  rebounding,  they  battered 
against  the  cars  on  the  outer  tracks  and  crushed  them 
against  the  side  of  the  ship.  The  wedges,  blocks,  and 
chains  which  had  secured  them  banged  about  on  the 
deck,  useless ;  the  men  who  tried  to  control  these  cars, 
dodging  as  they  charged,  no  longer  made  attempt  to 
secure  the  wheels.  Corvet  called  them  to  throw  ropes 
and  chains  to  bind  the  loads  which  were  letting  go ;  the 
heavier  loads  —  steel  beams,  castings,  machinery  — 
snapped  their  lashings,  tipped  from  their  flat  cars  and 
thundered  down  the  deck.  The  cars  tipped  farther, 
turned  over;  others  balanced  back;  it  was  upon  their 
wheels  that  they  charged  forward,  half  riding  one 
another,  crashing  and  demolishing,  as  the  ferry 
pitched ;  it  was  upon  their  trucks  that  they  tottered 
and  battered  from  side  to  side  as  the  deck  swayed. 
Now  the  stern  again  descended;  a  line  of  cars  swept 
for  the  fantail.  Corvet's  cry  came  to  Alan  through 
the  screaming  of  steel  and  the  clangor  of  destruction. 
Corvet's  cry  sent  men  with  bars  beside  the  cars  as  the 
fantail  dipped  into  the  water;  Corvet,  again  leading 
his  crew,  cleared  the  leader  of  those  madly  charging 
cars  and  ran  it  over  the  stern. 

The  fore  trucks  fell  and,  before  the  rear  trucks 
reached  the  edge,  the  stern  lifted  and  caught  the  car 
in  the  middle;  it  balanced,  half  over  the  water,  half 
over  the  deck.  Corvet  crouched  under  the  car  with 
a  crowbar;  Alan  and  two  others  went  with  him;  they 
worked  the  car  on  until  the  weight  of  the  end  over  the 
water  tipped  it  down;  the  balance  broke,  and  the  car 


292  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

tumbled  and  dived.  Corvet,  having  cleared  another 
hundred  tons,  leaped  back,  calling  to  the  crew. 

They  followed  him  again,  unquestioning,  obedient. 
Alan  followed  close  to  him.  It  was  not  pity  which 
stirred  him  now  for  Benjamin  Corvet;  nor  was  it  bit- 
terness ;  but  it  certainly  was  not  contempt.  Of  all  the 
ways  in  which  he  had  fancied  finding  Benjamin  Corvet, 
he  had  never  thought  of  seeing  him  like  this ! 

It  was,  probably,  only  for  a  flash;  but  the  great 
quality  of  leadership  which  he  once  had  possessed,  which 
Sherrill  had  described  to  Alan  and  which  had  been  de- 
stroyed by  the  threat  over  him,  had  returned  to  him  in 
this  desperate  emergency  which  he  had  created.  ,  How 
much  or  how  little  of  his  own  condition  Corvet  under- 
stood, Alan  could  not  tell;  it  was  plain  only  that  he 
comprehended  that  he  had  been  the  cause  of  the  catas- 
trophe, and  in  his  fierce  will  to  repair  it  he  not  only 
disregarded  all  risk  to  himself;- he  also  had  summoned 
up  from  within  him  and  was  spending  the  last  strength 
of  his  spirit.  But  he  was  spending  it  in  a  losing  fight. 

He  got  off  two  more  cars ;  yet  the  deck  only  dipped 
lower,  and  water  washed  farther  and  farther  up  over 
the  fantail.  New  avalanches  of  iron  descended  as  box 
cars  above  burst  open;  monstrous  dynamo  drums, 
broad-banded  steel  wheels  and  splintered  crates  of 
machinery  battered  about.  Men,  leaping  from  before 
the  charging  cars,  got  caught  in  the  murderous  melee 
of  iron  and  steel  and  wheels;  men's  shrill  cries  came 
amid  the  scream  of  metal.  Alan,  tugging  at  a  crate 
which  had  struck  down  a  man,  felt  aid  beside  him  and, 
turning,  he  saw  the  priest  whom  he  had  passed  on  the 
stairs.  The  priest  was  bruised  and  bloody;  this  was 
not  his  first  effort  to  aid.  Together  they  lifted  an 


"  HE  KILLED  YOUR  FATHER  "         293 

end  of  the  crate;  they  bent  —  Alan  stepped  back,  and 
the  priest  knelt  alone,  his  lips  repeating  the  prayer  for 
absolution.  Screams  of  men  came  from  behind;  and 
the  priest  rose  and  turned.  He  saw  men  caught  be- 
tween two  wrecks  of  cars  crushing  together ;  there  was 
no  moment  to  reach  them ;  he  stood  and  raised  his  arms 
to  them,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  voice  calling  to 
them,  as  they  died,  the  words  of  absolution. 

Three  more  cars  at  the  cost  of  two  more  lives  the 
crew  cleared,  while  the  sheathing  of  ice  spread  over  the 
steel  inboard,  and  dissolution  of  all  the  cargo  became 
complete.  Cut  stone  and  motor  parts,  chasses  and 
castings,  furniture  and  beams,  swept  back  and  forth, 
while  the  cars,  burst  and  splintered,  became  monstrous 
missiles  hurtling  forward,  sidewise,  aslant,  recoiling. 
Yet  men,  though  scattered  singly,  tried  to  stay  them 
by  ropes  and  chains  while  the  water  washed  higher  and 
higher.  Dimly,  far  away,  deafened  out  by  the  clangor, 
the  steam  whistle  of  Number  25  was  blowing  the  four 
long  blasts  of  distress ;  Alan  heard  the  sound  now  and 
then  with  indifferent  wonder.  All  destruction  had 
come  for  him  to  be  contained  within  this  car  deck ;  here 
the  ship  loosed  on  itself  all  elements  of  annihilation ; 
who  could  aid  it  from  Avithout?  Alan  caught  the  end 
of  a  chain  which  Corvet  flung  him  and,  though  he  knew 
it  was  useless,  he  carried  it  across  from  one  stanchion 
to  the  next.  Something,  sweeping  across  the  deck, 
caught  him  and  carried  him  with  it ;  it  brought  him  be- 
fore the  coupled  line  of  trucks  which  hurtled  back  and 
forth  where  the  rails  of  track  three  had  been.  He  was 
hurled  before  them  and  rolled  over ;  something  cold  and 
heavy  pinned  him  down ;  and  upon  him,  the  car  trucks 
came. 


294  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

But,  before  them,  something  warm  and  living  —  a 
hand  and  bare  arm  catching  him  quickly  and  pulling 
at  him,  tugged  him  a  little  farther  on.  Alan,  looking 
up,  saw  Corvet  beside  him;  Corvet,  unable  to  move 
him  farther,  was  crouching  down  there  with  him.  Alan 
yelled  to  him  to  leap,  to  twist  aside  and  get  out  of  the 
way ;  but  Corvet  only  crouched  closer  and  put  his  arms 
over  Alan ;  then  the  wreckage  came  upon  them,  driving 
them  apart.  As  the  movement  stopped,  Alan  still 
could  see  Corvet  dimly  by  the  glow  of  the  incandescent 
lamps  overhead;  the  truck  separated  them.  It  bore 
down  upon  Alan,  holding  him  motionless  and,  on  the 
other  side,  it  crushed  upon  Corvet's  legs. 

He  turned  over,  as  far  as  he  could,  and  spoke  to 
Alan.  "  You  have  been  saving  me,  so  now  I  tried  to 
save  you,"  he  said  simply.  "What  reason  did  you 
have  for  doing  that?  Why  have  you  been  keeping  by 
me?  " 

"  I'm  Alan  Conrad  of  Blue  Rapids,  Kansas,"  Alan 
cried  to  him.  "And  you're  Benjamin  Corvet!  You 
know  me ;  you  sent  for  me !  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  " 

Corvet  made  no  reply  to  this.  Alan,  peering  at  him 
underneath  the  truck,  could  see  that  his  hands  were 
pressed  against  his  face  and  that  his  body  shook. 
Whether  this  was  from  some  new  physical  pain  from 
the  movement  of  the  wreckage,  Alan  did  not  know  till 
he  lowered  his  hands  after  a  moment;  and  now  he  did 
not  heed  Alan  or  seem  even  to  be  aware  of  him. 

"  Dear  little  Connie!  "  he  said  aloud.  "  Dear  little 
Connie!  She  mustn't  marry  him  —  not  him!  That 
must  be  seen  to.  What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I 
do?" 

Alan  worked  nearer  him.     "  Why  mustn't  she  marry 


«  HE  KILLED  YOUR  FATHER  "         295 

Km?  »  he  cried  to  Corvet.    «  Why?    Ben  Corvet,  tell 

me !     Tell  me  why !  " 

From  above  him,  through  the  ciangor  of  the  cars, 
came  the  four  blasts  of  the  steam  whistle.  The  indif- 
ference with  which  Alan  had  heard  them  a  few  minutes 
before  had  changed  now  to  a  twinge  of  terror.  When 
men  had  been  dying  about  him,  in  their  attempts  to 
save  the  ship,  it  had  seemed  a  small  thing  for  him  to 
be  crushed  or  to  drown  with  them  and  with  Benjamin 
Corvet,  whom  he  had  found  at  last.  But  Constance! 
Recollection  of  her  was  stirring  in  Corvet  the  torture 
of  will  to  live ;  in  Alan  —  he  struggled  and  tried  to  free 
himself.  As  well  as  he  could  tell  by  feeling,  the 
weight  above  him  confined  but  was  not  crushing  him; 
yet  what  gain  for  her  if  he  only  saved  himself  and 
not  Corvet  too?  He  turned  back  to  Corvet. 

"  She's  going  to  marry  him,  Ben  Corvet ! "  he  called. 
"  They're  betrothed ;  and  they're  going  to  be  married, 
she  and  Henry  Spearman !  " 

*'  Who  are  you?  "  Corvet  seemed  only  with  an  effort 
to  become  conscious  of  Alan's  presence. 

"  I'm  Alan  Conrad,  whom  you  used  to  take  care  of. 
I'm  from  Blue  Rapids.  You  know  about  me;  are  you 
my  father,  Ben  Corvet?  Are  you  my  father  or  what 
—  what  are  you  to  me  ?  " 

"  Your  father?  "  Corvet  repeated.  "  Did  he  tell  you 
that?  He  killed  your  father." 

"  Killed  him  ?     Killed  him  how  ?  " 

"Of  course.  He  killed  them  all  —  all.  But  your 
father  —  he  shot  him ;  he  shot  him  through  the  head !  " 

Alan  twinged.  Sight  of  Spearman  came  before  him 
as  he  had  first  seen  Spearman,  cowering  in  Corvet's  li- 
brary in  terror  at  an  apparition.  "  And  the  bullet 


296  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

hole  above  the  eye ! "     So  that  was  the  hole  made  by 
the  shot  Spearman  fired  which  had  killed  Alan's  father 

—  which  shot  him  through  the  head!     Alan  peered  at 
Corvet  and  called  to  him. 

"  Father  Benitot ! "  Corvet  called  in  response,  not 
directly  in  reply  to  Alan's  question,  rather  in  response 
to  what  those  questions  stirred.  "  Father  Benitot !  " 
he  appealed.  "  Father  Benitot!" 

Some  one,  drawn  by  the  cry,  was  moving  wreckage 
near  them.  A  hand  and  arm  with  a  torn  sleeve  showed ; 
Alan  could  not  see  the  rest  of  the  figure,  but  by  the 
sleeve  he  recognized  that  it  was  the  mate. 

"Who's  caught  here?"  he  called  down. 

"Benjamin  Corvet  of  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spear- 
man, ship  owners  of  Chicago,"  Corvet's  voice  replied 
deeply,  fully ;  there  was  authority  in  it  and  wonder  too 

—  the  wonder  of  a  man  finding  himself  in  a  situation 
which  his  recollection  cannot  explain. 

"  Ben  Corvet ! "  the  mate  shouted  in  surprise ;  he 
cried  it  to  the  others,  those  who  had  followed  Corvet 
and  obeyed  him  during  the  hour  before  and  had  not 
known  why.  The  mate  tried  to  pull  the  wreckage  aside 
and  make  his  way  to  Corvet ;  but  the  old  man  stopped 
him.  "  The  priest,  Father  Benitot !  Send  him  to  me. 
I  shall  never  leave  here ;  send  Father  Benitot ! " 

The  word  was  passed  without  the  mate  moving  away. 
The  mate,  after  a  minute,  made  no  further  attempt  to 
free  Corvet;  that  indeed  was  useless,  and  Corvet  de- 
manded his  right  of  sacrament  from  the  priest  who 
came  and  crouched  under  the  wreckage  beside  him. 

"Father  Benitot!" 

"  I  am  not  Father  Benitot.  I  am  Father  Perron  of 
L'Anse." 


"  HE  KILLED  YOUR  FATHER  "         297 

«  It  was  to  Father  Benitot  of  St,  Ignace  I  should 
have  gone,  Father!  .  .  ." 

The  priest  got  a  little  closer  as  Corvet  spoke,  and  Alan 
heard  only  voices  now  and  then  through  the  sounds  of 
clanging  metal  and  the  drum  of  ice  against  the  hull. 
The  mate  and  his  helpers  were  working  to  get  him  free. 
They  had  abandoned  all  effort  to  save  the  ship ;  it  was 
settling.  And  with  the  settling,  the  movement  of  the 
wreckage  imprisoning  Alan  was  increasing.  This 
movement  made  useless  the  efforts  of  the  mate ;  it  would 
free  Alan  of  itself  in  a  moment,  if  it  did  not  kill  him; 
it  would  free  or  finish  Corvet  too.  But  he,  as  Alan 
saw  him,  was  wholly  oblivious  of  that  now.  His  lips 
moved  quietly,  firmly;  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  steadily 
on  the  eyes  of  the  priest. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MR.    SPEARMAN    GOES    XORTH 

THE  message,  in  blurred  lettering  and  upon  the 
flimsy  tissue  paper  of  a  carbon  copy  —  that 
message  which  had  brought  tension  to  the 
offices  of  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman  and  had 
called  Constance  Sherrill  and  her  mother  downtown 
where  further  information  could  be  more  quickly  ob- 
tained —  was  handed  to  Constance  by  a  clerk  as  soon 
as  she  entered  her  father's  office.  She  reread  it;  it 
already  had  been  repeated  to  her  over  the  telephone. 

"  4 :05  A.  M.  Frankfort  Wireless  station  has  re- 
ceived following  message  from  No.  25 :  '  We  have  Ben- 
jamin Corvet,  of  Chicago,  aboard.'  " 

"  You've  received  nothing  later  than  this  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Nothing  regarding  Mr.  Corvet,  Miss  Sherrill,"  the 
clerk  replied. 

"  Or  regarding  —  Have  you  obtained  a  passenger 
list?" 

"  No  passenger  list  was  kept,  Miss  Sherrill." 

"  The  crew?  ?> 

"Yes;  we  have  just  got  the  names  of  the  crew." 
He  took  another  copied  sheet  from  among  the  pages 
and  handed  it  to  her,  and  she  looked  swiftly  down  the 
list  of  names  until  she  found  that  of  Alan  Conrad. 

Her  eyes  filled,  blinding  her,  as  she  put  the  paper 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH         299 

down,  and  began  to  take  off  her  things.  She  had  been 
clinging  determinedly  in  her  thought  to  the  belief  that 
Alan  might  not  have  been  aboard  the  ferry.  Alan's 
mes&age,  which  had  sent  her  father  north  to  meet  the 
ship,  had  implied  plainly  that  some  one  whom  Alan 
believed  might  be  Uncle  Benny  was  on  Number  25 ;  she 
had  been  fighting,  these  last  few  hours,  against  convic- 
tion that  therefore  Alan  must  be  on  the  ferry  too. 

She  stood  by  the  desk,  as  the  clerk  went  out,  looking 
through  the  papers  which  he  had  left  with  her. 

"  What  do  they  say?  "  her  mother  asked. 

Constance  caught  herself  together. 

"  Wireless  signals  from  No.  25,"  she  read  aloud, 
"  were  plainly  made  out  at  shore  stations  at  Ludington, 
Manitowoc,  and  Frankfort  until  about  four  o'clock, 
when  — " 

"  That  is,  until  about  six  hours  ago,  Constance." 

"  Yes,  mother,  when  the  signals  were  interrupted. 
The  steamer  Richardson,  in  response  to  whose  signals 
No.  25  made  the  change  in  her  course  which  led  to  dis- 
aster, was  in  communication  until  about  four  o'clock ; 
Frankfort  station  picked  up  one  message  shortly  after 
four,  and  same  message  was  also  recorded  by  Carferry 
Manitoulin  in  southern  end  of  lake;  subsequently  all 
efforts  to  call  No.  25  failed  of  response  until  4 :35  when 
a  message  was  picked  up  at  once  by  Manitowoc,  Frank- 
fort, and  the  Richardson.  Information,  therefore,  re- 
garding the  fate  of  the  ferry  up  to  that  hour  received 
at  this  office  (Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman)  con- 
sists of  the  following  .  .  ." 

Constance  stopped  reading  aloud  and  looked  rapidly 
down  the  sheet  and  then  over  the  next.  What  she  was 
reading  was  the  carbon  of  the  report  prepared  that 


300  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

morning  and  sent,  at  his  rooms,  to  Henry,  who  was  not 
yet  down.  It  did  not  contain  therefore  the  last  that 
was  known;  and  she  read  only  enough  of  it  to  be  sure 
of  that. 

"  After  4 :10,  to  repeated  signals  to  Number  25  from 
Richardson  and  shore  stations — 'Are  you  in  danger?  ' 
'Shall  we  send  help?*  'Are  you  jettisoning  cars?' 
'What  is  your  position?' — no  replies  were  received. 
The  Richardson  continued  therefore  to  signal,  '  Report 
your  position  and  course ;  we  will  stand  by,'  at  the  same 
time  making  full  speed  toward  last  position  given  by 
Number  25.  At  4:35,  no  other  message  having  been 
obtained  from  Number  25  in  the  meantime,  Manitowoc 
and  Frankfort  both  picked  up  the  following:  '  S.  O.  S. 
Are  taking  water  fast.  S.  O.  S.  Position  probably 
twenty  miles  west  N.  Fox.  S.  O.  S.'  The  S.  O.  S.  has 
been  repeated,  but  without  further  information  since." 

The  report  made  to  Henry  ended  here.  Constance 
picked  up  the  later  messages  received  in  response  to 
orders  to  transmit  to  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman 
copies  of  all  signals  concerning  Number  25  which  had 
been  received  or  sent.  She  sorted  out  from  them  those 
dated  after  the  hour  she  just  had  read: 

"4:40,  Manitowoc  is  calling  No.  25,  'No.  26  is 
putting  north  to  you.  Keep  in  touch.' 

"4:43,  No.  26  is  calling  No.  25,  'What  is  your 
position? ' 

"  4 :50,  the  Richardson  is  calling  No.  25,  '  We  must 
be  approaching  you.  Are  you  giving  whistle  signals?  ' 

"  4 :53,  No.  25  is  replying  to  Richardson,  '  Yes  ;  will 
continue  to  signal.  Do  you  hear  us?' 

"  4 :59,  Frankfort  is  calling  No.  25,  '  What  is  your 
condition  ?  ' 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH          301 

"  5 :04,  No.  25  is  replying  to  Frankfort,  '  Holding 
bare  headway ;  stern  very  low.' 

"  5 :10,  No.  26  is  calling  No.  25,  '  Are  you  throwing 
off  cars  ?  ' 

"  5 :14,  Petoskey  is  calling  Manitowoc,  '  We  are  re- 
ceiving S.O.S.  What  is  wrong?  '  Petoskey  has  not 
previously  been  in  communication  with  shore  stations 
or  ships. 

"  5 :17,  No.  25  is  signalling  No.  26,  '  Are  throwing 
off  cars ;  have  cleared  eight ;  work  very  difficult.  We 
are  sinking.' 

"5:20,  No.  25  is  calling  the  Richardson,  'Watch 
for  small  boats.  Position  doubtful  because  of  snow 
and  changes  of  course;  probably  due  west  N.  Fox, 
twenty  to  thirty  miles.' 

"5:24-,  No.  26  is  calling  No.  25,  'Are  you  aban- 
doning ship?  ' 

"  5 :27,  No.  25  is  replying  to  No.  26,  '  Second  boat 
just  getting  safely  away  with  passengers;  first  boat 
was  smashed.  Six  passengers  in  second  boat,  two  in- 
jured of  crew,  cabin  maid,  boy  and  two  men.' 

"  5 :30,  Manitowoc  and  Frankfort  are  calling  No. 
25,  '  Are  you  abandoning  ship?  ' 

"  5 :34,  No.  25  is  replying  to  Manitowoc,  '  Still  try- 
ing to  clear  cars;  everything  is  loose  below  .  .  .' 

"  5 :40,  Frankfort  is  calling  Manitowoc,  '  Do  you  get 
anything  now  ? ' 

"  5  :45,  Manitowoc  is  calling  the  Richardson,  '  Do 
you  get  anything?  Signals  have  stopped  here.' 

"  5 :48,  The  Richardson  is  calling  Petoskey,  '  We  get 
nothing  now.  Do  you?  ' 

"6:30,  Petoskey  is  calling  Manitowoc,  'Signals 
after  becoming  indistinct,  failed  entirely  about  5 :45, 


302  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

probably  by  failure  of  ship's  power  to  supply  current. 
Operator  appears  to  have  remained  at  key.  From  5 :25 
to  5 :43  we  received  disconnected  messages,  as  follows : 
'  Have  cleared  another  car  .  .  .  they  are  sticking  to 
it  down  there  .  .  .  engine-room  crew  is  also  sticking 
.  .  .  hell  on  car  deck  .  .  .  everything  smashed  .  .  . 
they  won't  give  up  ...  sinking  now  .  .  .  we're  going 
.  .  .  good-by  .  .  .  stuck  to  end  ...  all  they  could 
.  .  .  know  that  .  .  .  hand  it  to  them  .  .  .  have 
cleared  another  car  .  .  .  sink  .  .  .  S.  O.  .  .  .  Sig- 
nals then  entirely  ceased/  " 

There  was  no  more  than  this.  Constance  let  the 
papers  fall  back  upon  the  desk  and  looked  to  her 
mother;  Mrs.  Sherrill  loosened  her  fur  collar  and  sat 
back,  breathing  more  comfortably.  Constance  quickly 
shifted  her  gaze  and,  trembling  and  with  head  erect, 
she  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  mean- 
ing of  what  she  had  read  was  quite  clear;  her  mother 
was  formulating  it. 

"  So  they  are  both  lost,  Mr.  Corvet  and  his  —  son," 
Mrs.  Sherrill  said  quietly. 

Constance  did  not  reply,  either  to  refuse  or  to  con- 
cur in  the  conclusion.  There  was  not  anything  which 
was  meant  to  be  merciless  in  that  conclusion;  her 
mother  simply  was  crediting  what  probably  had  oc- 
curred. Constance  could  not  in  reason  refuse  to  ac- 
cept it  too ;  yet  she  was  refusing  it.  She  had  not 
realized,  until  these  reports  of  the  wireless  messages 
told  her  that  he  was  gone,  what  companionship  with 
Alan  had  come  to  mean  to  her.  She  had  accepted  it 
as  always  to  be  existent,  somehow  —  a  companionship 
which  might  be  interrupted  often  but  always  to  be 
formed  again.  It  amazed  her  to  find  how  firm  a  place 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH          303 

he  had  found  in  her  world  of  those  close  to  her  with 
whom  she  must  always  be  intimately  concerned. 

Her  mother  arose  and  came  beside  her.  "  May  it 
not  be  better,  Constance,  that  it  has  happened  this 
way?" 

"Better!"  Constance  cried.  She  controlled  her- 
self. 

It  was  only  what  Henry  had  said  to  her  months 
ago  when  Alan  had  left  her  in  the  north  in  the  search 
which  had  resulted  in  the  finding  of  Uncle  Benny  — 
"Might  it  not  be  better  for  him  not  to  find  out?" 
Henry,  who  could  hazard  more  accurately  than  any  one 
else  the  nature  of  that  strange  secret  which  Alan  now 
must  have  "  found  out,"  had  believed  it ;  her  mother, 
who  at  least  had  lived  longer  in  the  world  than  she, 
also  believed  it.  There  came  before  Constance  the  vi- 
sion of  Alan's  defiance  and  refusal  to  accept  the  stigma 
suggested  in  her  father's  recital  to  him  of  his  relation- 
ship to  Mr.  Corvet.  There  came  to  her  sight  of  him 
as  he  had  tried  to  keep  her  from  entering  Uncle  Ben- 
ny's house  when  Luke  was  there,  and  then  her  waiting 
with  him  through  the  long  hour  and  his  dismissal  of 
her,  his  abnegation  of  their  friendship.  And  at  that 
time  his  disgrace  was  indefinite;  last  night  had  he 
learned  something  worse  than  he  had  dreaded? 

The  words  of  his  telegram  took  for  her  more  terri- 
ble significance  for  the  moment.  "  Have  some  one  who 
knew  Mr.  Corvet  well  enough  to  recognize  him  even  if 
greatly  changed  meet  .  .  ."  Were  the  broken,  inco- 
herent words  of  the  wireless  the  last  that  she  should 
hear  of  him,  and  of  Uncle  Benny,  after  that?  "  They 
are  sticking  to  it  ...  down  there  .  .  .  they  won't 
give  up  ...  sinking  .  .  .  they  have  cleared  another 


304  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

car  .  .  .  sink  .  .  ."  Had  it  come  as  the  best  way 
for  them  both? 

"  The  Richardson  is  searching  for  boats,  mother," 
Constance  returned  steadily,  "  and  Number  26  must  be 
there  too  by  now." 

Her  mother  looked  to  the  storm.  Outside  the  win- 
dow which  overlooked  the  lake  from  two  hundred  feet 
above  the  street,  the  sleet-like  snow  was  driving  cease- 
lessly; all  over  the  western  basin  of  the  great  lakes, 
as  Constance  knew  —  over  Huron,  over  Michigan,  and 
Superior  —  the  storm  was  established.  Its  continu- 
ance and  severity  had  claimed  a  front-page  column  in 
the  morning  papers.  Duluth  that  morning  had  re- 
ported temperature  of  eighteen  below  zero  and  fierce 
snow ;  at  Marquette  it  was  fifteen  below ;  there  was 
driving  snow  at  the  Soo,  at  Mackinac,  and  at  all  ports 
along  both  shores.  She  pictured  little  boats,  at  the 
last  moment,  getting  away  from  the  ferry,  deep-laden 
with  injured  and  exhausted  men;  how  long  might  those 
men  live  in  open  boats  in  a  gale  and  with  cold  like 
that?  The  little  clock  upon  her  father's  desk  marked 
ten  o'clock;  they  had  been  nearly  five  hours  in  the 
boats  now,  those  men. 

Constance  knew  that  as  soon  as  anything  new  was 
heard,  it  would  be  brought  to  her ;  yet,  with  a  word  to 
her  mother,  she  went  from  her  father's  room  and  down 
the  corridor  into  the  general  office.  A  hush  of  expect- 
ancy held  this  larger  room;  the  clerks  moved  silently 
and  spoke  to  one  another  in  low  voices ;  she  recognized 
in  a  little  group  of  men  gathered  in  a  corner  of  the 
room  some  officers  of  Corvet,  Sherrill,  and  Spearman's 
ships.  Others  among  them,  whom  she  did  not  know, 
were  plainly  seamen  too  —  men  who  knew  "  Ben  "  Cor- 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH          305 

vet  and  who,  on  hearing  he  was  on  the  ferry,  had  come 
in  to  learn  what  more  was  known;  the  business  men 
and  clubmen,  friends  of  Corvet's  later  life,  had  not 
heard  it  yet.  There  was  a  restrained,  professional  at- 
tentiveness  among  these  seamen,  as  of  those  in  the  pres- 
ence of  an  event  which  any  day  might  happen  to  them- 
selves. They  were  listening  to  the  clerk  who  had  com- 
piled the  report,  who  was  telephoning  now,  and  Con- 
stance, waiting,  listened  too  to  learn  what  he  might  be 
hearing.  But  he  put  down  the  receiver  as  he  saw  her. 

"  Nothing  more,  Miss  Sherrill,"  he  reported.  "  The 
Richardson  has  wirelessed  that  she  reached  the  re- 
ported position  of  the  sinking  about  half-past  six 
o'clock.  She  is  searching  but  has  found  nothing." 

"  She's  keeping  on  searching,  though?  " 

"Yes;  of  course." 

"  It's  still  snowing  there?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sherrill.  We've  had  a  message  from 
your  father.  He  has  gone  on  to  Manistique ;  it's  more 
likely  that  wreckage  or  survivors  will  be  brought  in 
there." 

The  telephone  switchboard  beside  Constance  sud- 
denly buzzed,  and  the  operator,  plugging  in  a  connec- 
tion, said:  "  Yes,  sir;  at  once,"  and  through  the  par- 
titions of  the  private  office  on  the  other  side,  a  man's 
heavy  tones  came  to  Constance.  That  was  Henry's 
office  and,  in  timbre,  the  voice  was  his,  but  it  was  so 
strange  in  other  characteristics  of  expression  that  she 
waited  an  instant  before  saying  to  the  clerk, 

"  Mr.  Spearman  has  come  in?  " 

The  clerk  hesitated,  but  the  continuance  of  the  tone 
from  the  other  side  of  the  partition  made  reply  super- 
fluous. «  Yes,  Mi8S  Sherrill." 


306  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  mother  and  I  were  here?  " 

The  clerk  considered  again  before  deciding  to  reply 
in  the  affirmative.  There  evidently  was  some  trouble 
with  the  telephone  number  which  Henry  had  called; 
the  girl  at  the  switchboard  was  apologizing  in  fright- 
ened panic,  and  Henry's  voice,  loud  and  abusive, 
came  more  plainly  through  the  partition.  Constance 
started  to  give  an  instruction  to  the  clerk ;  then,  as 
the  abuse  burst  out  again,  she  changed  her  plan  and 
went  to  Henry's  door  and  rapped.  Whether  no  one 
else  rapped  in  that  way  or  whether  he  realized  that 
she  might  have  come  into  the  general  office,  she  did  not 
know ;  but  at  once  his  voice  was  still.  He  made  no  an- 
swer and  no  move  to  open  the  door;  so,  after  waiting 
a  moment,  she  turned  the  knob  and  went  in. 

Henry  was  seated  at  his  desk,  facing  her,  his  big 
hands  before  him;  one  of  them  held  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver. He  lifted  it  slowly  and  put  it  upon  the  hook 
beside  the  transmitter  as  he  watched  her  with  steady, 
silent,  aggressive  scrutiny.  His  face  was  flushed  a 
little  —  not  much ;  his  hair  was  carefully  brushed,  and 
there  was  something  about  his  clean-shaven  appearance 
and  the  set  of  his  perfectly  fitting  coat,  one  which  he 
did  not  ordinarily  wear  to  business,  which  seemed  stud- 
ied. He  did  not  rise;  only  after  a  moment  he  recol- 
lected that  he  had  not  done  so  and  came  to  his  feet. 
"  Good  morning,  Connie,"  he  said.  "  Come  in. 
What's  the  news?" 

There  was  something  strained  and  almost  menacing 
in  his  voice  and  in  his  manner  which  halted  her.  She 
in  some  way  —  or  her  presence  at  that  moment  —  ap- 
peared to  be  definitely  disturbing  him.  It  frightened 
him,  she  would  have  thought,  except  that  the  idea  was 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH         307 

a  contradiction.  Henry  frightened?  But  if  he  was 
not,  what  emotion  now  controlled  him? 

The  impulse  which  had  brought  her  into  his  office 
went  from  her.  She  had  not  seen  nor  heard  from 
Henry  directly  since  before  Alan's  telegram  had  come 
late  yesterday  afternoon ;  she  had  heard  from  her 
father  only  that  he  had  informed  Henry;  that  was  all. 

"I've  no  news,  Henryj"  she  said.  "  Have  you?" 
She  closed  the  door  behind  her  before  moving  closer  to 
him.  She  had  not  known  what  he  had  been  doing,  since 
he  had  heard  of  Alan's  telegram ;  but  she  had  supposed 
that  he  was  in  some  way  cooperating  with  her  father, 
particularly  since  word  had  come  of  the  disaster  to  the 
ferry. 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  here,  Connie?  "  he 
asked. 

She  made  no  reply  but  gazed  at  him,  studying  him. 
The  agitation  which  he  was  trying  to  conceal  was  not 
entirely  consequent  to  her  coming  in  upon  him ;  it  had 
been  ruling  him  before.  It  had  underlain  the  loudness 
and  abuse  of  his  words  which  she  had  overheard.  That 
was  no  capricious  outburst  of  temper  or  irritation;  it 
had  come  from  something  which  had  seized  and  held 
him  in  suspense,  in  dread  —  in  dread;  there  was  no 
other  way  to  define  her  impression  to  herself.  When 
she  had  opened  the  door  and  come  in,  he  had  looked  up 
in  dread,  as  though  preparing  himself  for  whatever  she 
might  announce.  Now  that  the  door  shut  them  in 
alone,  he  approached  her  with  arms  offered.  She 
stepped  back,  instinctively  avoiding  his  embrace;  and 
he  stopped  at  once,  but  he  had  come  quite  close  to  her 
now. 

That  she  had  detected  faintly  the  smell  of  liquor 


308  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

about  him  was  not  the  whole  reason  for  her  drawing 
back.  He  was  not  drunk;  he  was  quite  himself  so  far 
as  any  influence  of  that  kind  was  concerned.  Long 
ago,  when  he  was  a  young  man  on  the  boats,  he  had 
drunk  a.  good  deal ;  he  had  confessed  to  her  once ;  but 
he  had  not  done  so  for  years.  Since  she  had  known 
him,  he  had  been  among  the  most  careful  of  her  friends ; 
it  was  for  "  efficiency  "  he  had  said.  The  drink  was 
simply  a  part  —  indeed,  only  a  small  part  —  of  the 
subtle  strangeness  and  peculiarity  she  marked  in  him. 
If  he  had  been  drinking  now,  it  was,  she  knew,  no 
temptation,  no  capricious  return  to  an  old  appetite. 
If  not  appetite,  then  it  was  for  the  effect  —  to  brace 
himself.  Against  what?  Against  the  thing  for  which 
he  had  prepared  himself  when  she  came  upon  him? 

As  she  stared  at  him,  the  clerk's  voice  came  to  her 
suddenly  over  the  partition  which  separated  the  office 
from  the  larger  room  where  the  clerk  was  receiving 
some  message  over  the  telephone.  Henry  straightened, 
listened;  as  the  voice  stopped,  his  great,  finely  shaped 
head  sank  between  his  shoulders ;  he  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  for  a  cigar,  and  his  big  hands  shook  as  he 
lighted  it,  without  word  of  excuse  to  her.  A  strange 
feeling  came  to  her  that  he  felt  what  he  dreaded  ap- 
proaching and  was  no  longer  conscious  of  her  pres- 
ence. 

She  heard  footsteps  in  the  larger  room  coming  to^ 
ward  the  office  door.  Henry  was  in  suspense.  A  rap 
came  at  the  door.  He  whitened  and  took  the  cigar 
from  his  mouth  and  wet  his  lips. 

"  Come  in,"  he  summoned. 

One  of  the  office  girls  entered,  bringing  a  white  page 
of  paper  with  three  or  four  lines  of  purple  typewriting 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH          309 

upon  it  which  Constance  recognized  must  be  a  tran- 
script of  a  message  just  received. 

She  started  forward  at  sight  of  it,  forgetting  every- 
thing else ;  but  he  took  the  paper  as  though  he  did  not 
know  she  was  there.  He  merely  held  it  until  the  girl 
had  gone  out ;  even  then  he  stood  folding  and  unfold- 
ing it,  and  his  eyes  did  not  drop  to  the  sheet. 

The  girl  had  said  nothing  at  all  but,  having  seen 
her,  Constance  was  athrill ;  the  girl  had  not  been  a 
bearer  of  bad  news,  that  was  sure;  she  brought  some 
sort  of  good  news !  Constance,  certain  of  it,  moved 
nearer  to  Henry  to  read  what  he  held.  He  looked 
down  and  read. 

"What  is  it,  Henry?" 

His  muscular  reaction,  as  he  read,  had  drawn  the 
sheet  away  from  her;  he  recovered  himself  almost  in- 
stantly and  gave  the  paper  to  her ;  but,  in  that  instant, 
Constance  herself  was  "  prepared."  She  must  have  de- 
ceived herself  the  instant  before !  This  bulletin  must 
be  something  dismaying  to  what  had  remained  of 
hope. 

"8:35  A.M.,  Manitowoc,  Wis.,"  she  read.  "The 
schooner  Anna  S.  Solwerk  has  been  sighted  making  for 
this  port.  She  is  oiot  close  enough  for  communication, 
but  two  lifeboats,  additional  to  her  own,  can  be  plainly 
made  out.  It  is  believed  that  she  must  have'  picked 
up  survivors  of  No.  25.  She  carries  no  wireless,  so  is 
unable  to  report.  Tugs  are  going  out  to  her." 

"Two  lifeboats!"  Constance  cried.  "That  could 
mean  that  they  all  are  saved  or  nearly  all ;  doesn't  it, 
Henry;  doesn't  it?" 

He  had  read  some  other  significance  in  it,  she 
thought,  or,  from  his  greater  understanding  of  con- 


310  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

ditions  in  the  storm,  he  had  been  able  to  hold  no  hope 
from  what  had  been  reported.  That  was  the  only  way 
she  could  explain  to  herself  as  he  replied  to  her ;  that 
the  word  meant  to  him  that  men  were  saved  and  that 
therefore  it  was  dismaying  to  him,  could  not  come  to 
her  at  once.  When  it  came  now,  it  went  over  her  first 
only  in  the  flash  of  incredulous  question. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  her.  "  Yes."  And  he  went  out 
of  the  room  to  the  outer  office.  She  turned  and 
watched  him  and  then  followed  to  the  door.  He  had 
gone  to  the  desk  of  the  girl  who  had  brought  him  the 
bulletin,  and  Constance  heard  his  voice,  strained  and 
queerly  unnatural.  "  Call  Manitowoc  on  the  long  dis- 
tance. Get  the  harbor  master.  Get  the  names  of 
the  people  that  the  Solwerk  picked  up." 

He  stayed  beside  the  girl  while  she  started  the  call. 
"  Put  them  on  my  wire  when  you  get  them,"  he  com- 
manded and  turned  back  to  his  office.  "  Keep  my  wire 
clear  for  that." 

Constance  retreated  into  the  room  as  he  approached. 
He  did  not  want  her  there  now,  she  knew ;  for  that 
reason  —  if  she  yet  definitely  understood  no  other  — 
she  meant  to  remain.  If  he  asked  her  to  go,  she  in- 
tended to  stay;  but  he  did  not  ask  her.  He  wished 
her  to  go  away;  in  every  word  which  he  spoke  to  her, 
in  every  moment  of  their  silent  waiting,  was  his  de- 
sire to  escape  her ;  but  he  dared  not  —  dared  not  — 
go  about  that  directly. 

The  feeling  of  that  flashed  over  her  to  her  stupefac- 
tion. Henry  and  she  were  waiting  for  word  of  the 
fate  of  Uncle  Benny  and  Alan,  and  waiting  opposed! 
She  was  no  longer  doubting  it  as  she  watched  him; 
she  was  trying  to  understand.  The  telephone  buzzer 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH          311 

under  his  desk  sounded;  she  drew  close  as  he  took  up 
his  receiver. 

"  Manitowoc? "  he  said.  "I  want  to  know  what 
you've  heard  from  the  Solwerk.  .  .  .  You  hear  me? 
.  .  .  The  men  the  Solwerk  picked  up.  You  have  the 
names  jet?  " 

«  5J 

"  The  Benton?  " 

<(  5» 

"  Oh,  I  understand !  All  from  the  Benton.  I  see ! 
.  .  .  No;  never  mind  their  names.  How  about  Num- 
ber 25?  Nothing  more  heard  from  them?  " 

Constance  had  caught  his  shoulder  while  he  was 
speaking  and  now  clung  to  it.  Release  —  release  of 
strain  was  going  through  him ;  she  could  feel  it,  and 
she  heard  it  in  his  tones  and  saw  it  in  his  eyes. 

"  The  steamer  Number  25  rammed  proves  to  have 
been  the  Benton,"  he  told  her.  "  The  men  are  all  from 
her.  They  had  abandoned  her  in  the  small  boats,  and 
the  Solrcerk  picked  them  up  before  the  ferry  found 
Vr." 

He  was  not  asking  her  to  congratulate  him  upon  the 
relief  he  felt;  he  had  not  so  far  forgotten  himself  as 
that.  But  it  was  plain  to  her  that  he  was  congratu- 
lating himself;  it  had  been  fear  that  he  was  feeling 
before  —  fear,  she  was  beginning  to  understand,  that 
those  on  the  ferry  had  been  saved.  She  shrank  a  little 
away  from  him.  Benjamin  Corvet  had  not  been  a 
friend  of  Henry  's  —  they  had  quarreled ;  Uncle  Benny 
had  caused  trouble ;  but  nothing  which  she  had  under- 
stood could  explain  fear  on  Henry's  part  lest  Uncle 
Benny  should  be  found  safe.  Henry  had  not  welcomed 
Alan ;  but  now  Henry  was  hoping  that  Alan  was  dead. 


312  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

Henry's  words  to  her  in  the  north,  after  Alan  had 
seen  her  there,  iterated  themselves  to  her :  "  I  told 
that  fellow  Conrad  not  to  keep  stirring  up  these  mat- 
ters about  Ben  Corvet.  .  .  .  Conrad  doesn't  know 
what  he'll  turn  up ;  I  don't  know  either.  But  it's  not 
going  to  be  anything  pleasant.  .  .  ."  Only  a  few 
minutes  ago  she  had  still  thought  of  these  words  as 
spoken  only  for  Alan's  sake  and  for  Uncle  Benny's ; 
now  she  could  not  think  of  them  so.  This  fear  of 
news  from  the  north  could  not  be  for  their  sake ;  it  was 
for  Henry's  own.  Had  all  the  warnings  been  for 
Henry's  sake  too? 

Horror  and  amazement  flowed  in  upon  her  with  her 
realization  of  this  in  the  man  she  had  promised  to 
marry ;  and  he  seemed  now  to  appreciate  the  effect  he 
was  producing  upon  her.  He  tried  obviously  to  pull 
himself  together;  he  could  not  do  that  fully;  yet  he 
managed  a  manner  assertive  of  his  right  over  her. 

"  Connie,"  he  cried  to  her,  "  Connie!  " 

She  drew  back  from  him  as  he  approached  her;  she 
was  not  yet  consciously  denying  his  right.  What  was 
controlling  him,  what  might  underlie  his  hope  that 
they  were  dead,  she  could  not  guess ;  she  could  not 
think  or  reason  about  that  now;  what  she  felt  was 
only  overwhelming  desire  to  be  away  from  him  where 
she  could  think  connectedly.  For  an  instant  she 
stared  at  him,  all  her  body  tense;  then,  as  she  turned 
and  went  out,  he  followed  her,  again  calling  her  name. 
But,  seeing  the  seamen  in  the  larger  office,  he  stopped, 
and  she  understood  he  was  not  willing  to  urge  himself 
upon  her  in  their  presence. 

She  crossed  the  office  swiftly;  in  the  corridor  she 
stopped  to  compose  herself  before  she  met  her  mother. 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH         813 

She  heard  Henry's  voice  speaking  to  one  of  the  clerks, 
and  flushed  hotly  with  horror.  Could  she  be  certain 
of  anything  about  him  now?  Could  she  be  certain 
even  that  news  which  came  through  these  employees 
of  his  would  not  be  kept  from  her  or  only  so  much 
given  her  as  would  serve  Henry's  purpose  and  enable 
him  to  conceal  from  her  the  reason  for  his  fear?  She 
pushed  the  door  open. 

"  I'm  willing  to  go  home  now,  mother,  if  you  wish," 
she  said  steadily. 

Her  mother  arose  at  once.  "  There  is  no  more  news, 
Constance?" 

"  No ;  a  schooner  has  picked  up  the  crew  of  the  ship 
the  ferry  rammed ;  that  is  all." 

She  followed  her  mother,  but  stopped  in  the  ante- 
room beside  the  desk  of  her  father's  private  secretary. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  here  all  day,  Miss  Bennet?  ' 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sherrill." 

"  Will  you  please  try  to  see  personally  all  messages 
which  come  to  Corvet,  Sherrill  and  Spearman,  or  to 
Mr.  Spearman  about  the  men  "from  Number  25,  and 
telephone  them  to  me  yourself?" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Sherrill." 

When  they  had  gone  down  to  the  street  and  were  in 
the  car,  Constance  leaned  back,  closing  her  eyes;  she 
feared  her  mother  might  wish  to  talk  with  her.  The 
afternoon  papers  were  already  out  with  news  of  the 
loss  of  the  ferry ;  Mrs.  Sherrill  stopped  the  car  and 
bought  one,  but  Constance  looked  at  it  only  enough  to 
make  sure  that  the  reporters  had  been  able  to  discover 
nothing  more  than  she  already  knew;  the  newspaper 
reference  to  Henry  was  only  as  to  the  partner  of  the 


314  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

great  Chicago  ship  owner,  Benjamin  Corvet,  who  might 
be  lost  with  the  ship. 

She  called  Miss  Bennet  as  soon  as  she  reached  Lome ; 
but  nothing  more  had  been  received.  Toward  three 
o'clock,  Miss  Bennet  called  her,  but  only  to  report  that 
the  office  had  heard  again  from  Mr.  Sherrill.  He  had 
wired  .that  he  was  going  on  from  Manistique  and  would 
cross  the  Straits  from  St.  Ignace;  messages  from  him 
were  to  be  addressed  to  Petoskey.  He  had  given  no 
suggestion  that  he  had  news ;  and  there  was  no  other 
report  except  that  vessels  were  still  continuing  the 
search  for  survivors,  because  the  Indian  Drum,  which 
had  been  beating,  was  beating  "  short,"  causing  the 
superstitious  to  be  certain  that,  though  some  of  the 
men  from  Number  25  were  lost,  some  yet  survived. 

Constance  thrilled  as  she  heard  that.  She  did  not 
believe  in  the  Drum ;  at  least  she  had  never  thought  she 
had  really  believed  in  it;  she  had  only  stirred  to  the 
idea  of  its  being  true.  But  if  the  Drum  was  beating, 
she  was  glad  it  was  beating  short.  It  was  serving,  at 
least,  to  keep  the  lake  men  more  alert.  She  wondered 
what  part  the  report  of  the  Drum  might  have  played 
in  her  father's  movements.  None,  probably ;  for  he, 
of  course,  did  not  believe  in  the  Drum.  His  move  was 
plainly  dictated  by  the  fact  that,  with  the  western  gale, 
drift  from  the  ferry  would  be  toward  the  eastern  shore. 

A  little  later,  as  Constance  stood  at  the  window, 
gazing  out  at  the  snow  upon  the  lake,  she  drew  back 
suddenly  out  of  sight  from  the  street,  as  she  saw 
Henry's  roadster  appear  out  of  the  storm  and  stop 
before  the  house. 

She  had  been  apprehensively  certain  that  he  would 
come  to  her  some  time  during  the  day ;  he  had  been  too 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH         315 

fully  aware  of  the  effect  he  made  upon  her  not  to  at- 
tempt to  remove  that  effect  as  soon  as  he  could.  As 
he  got  out  of  the  car,  shaking  the  snowflakes  from  his 
great  fur  coat  and  from  his  cap,  looking  up  at  the 
house  before  he  came  in  and  not  knowing  that  he  was 
observed,  she  saw  something  very  like  triumph  in  his 
manner.  Her  pulses  stopped,  then  raced,  at  that;  tri- 
umph for  him!  That  meant,  if  he  brought  news,  it 
was  good  news  for  him ;  it  must  be  then,  bad  news  for 
her. 

She  waited  in  the  room  where  she  was.  She  heard 
him  in  the  hall,  taking  off  his  coat  and  speaking  to  the 
servant,  and  he  appeared  then  at  the  door.  The  strain 
he  was  under  had  not  lessened,  she  could  see ;  or  rather, 
if  she  could  trust  her  feeling  at  sight  of  him,  it  had 
lessened  only  slightly,  and  at  the  same  time  his  power 
to  resist  it  had  been  lessening  too.  His  hands  and 
even  his  body  shook ;  but  his  head  was  thrust  forward, 
and  he  stared  at  her  aggressively,  nnd,  plainly,  he  had 
determined  in  advance  to  act  toward  her  as  though 
their  relationship  had  not  been  disturbed. 

"  I  thought  you'd  want  to  know,  Connie,"  he  said, 
;'  so  I  came  straight  out.  The  Richardson's  picked  up 
one  of  the  boats  from  the  ferry." 

"  Uncle  Benny  and  Alan  Conrad  were  not  in  it,"  she 
returned ;  the  triumph  she  had  seen  in  him  had  told  her 
that. 

"  No ;  it  was  the  first  boat  put  off  by  the  ferry,  with 
the  passengers  and  cabin  maid  and  some  injured  men 
of  the  crew." 

"  Were  they  —  alive  ?  "  her  voice  hushed  tensely. 

"  Yes ;  that  is,  they  were  able  to  revive  them  all ;  but 
it  didn't  seem  possible  to  the  Richardson's  officers  that 


316  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

any  one  could  be  revived  who  had  been  exposed  much 
longer  than  that;  so  the  Richardson's  given  up  the 
search,  and  some  of  the  other  ships  that  were  search- 
ing have  given  up  too,  and  gone  on  their  course." 

"When  did  you  hear  that,  Henry?  I  was  just 
speaking  with  the  office." 

"  A  few  minutes  ago ;  a  news  wire  got  it  before  any 
one  else ;  it  didn't  come  through  the  office." 

"  I  see;  how  many  were  in  the  boat?  " 

"  Twelve,  Connie." 

"  Then  all  the  vessels  up  there  won't  give  up  yet ! " 

"Why  not?" 

"I  was  just  talking  with  Miss  Bennet,  Henry;  she's 
heard  again  from  the  other  end  of  the  lake.  The  peo- 
ple up  there  say  the  Drum  is  beating,  but  it's  beating 
short  still!" 

"Short!" 

She  saw  Henry  stiffen.  "Yes,"  she  said  swiftly. 
"  They  say  the  Drum  began  sounding  last  night,  and 
that  at  first  it  sounded  for  only  two  lives;  it's  kept  on 
beating,  but  still  is  beating  only  for  four.  There  were 
thirty-nine  on  the  ferry  —  seven  passengers  and  thirty- 
two  crew.  Twelve  have  been  saved  now;  so  until  the 
Drum  raises  the  beats  to  twenty-seven  there  is  still  a 
chance  that  some  one  will  be  saved." 

Henry  made  no  answer ;  his  hands  fumbled  purpose- 
lessly with  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  and  his  bloodshot 
eyes  wandered  uncertainly.  Constance  watched  him 
with  wonder  at  the  effect  of  what  she  had  told.  When 
she  had  asked  him  once  about  the  Drum,  he  had  pro- 
fessed the  same  scepticism  which  she  had;  but  he  had 
not  held  it;  at  least  he  was  not  holding  it  now.  The 
news  of  the  Drum  had  shaken  him  from  his  triumph 


MR.  SPEARMAN  GOES  NORTH          317 

over  Alan  and  Uncle  Benny  and  over  her.  It  had 
shaken  him  so  that,  though  he  remained  with  her  some 
minutes  more,  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  purpose 
of  reconciliation  with  her  which  had  brought  him  to  the 
house.  When  a  telephone  call  took  her  out  of  the 
room,  she  returned  to  find  him  gone  to  the  dining-room ; 
she  heard  a  decanter  clink  there  against  a  glass.  He 
did  not  return  to  her  again,  but  she  heard  him  go.  The 
entrance  door  closed  after  him,  and  the  sound  of  his 
starting  motor  came.  Then  alarm,  stronger  even  than 
that  she  had  felt  during  the  morning,  rushed  upon  her. 

She  dined,  or  made  a  pretence  of  dining,  with  her 
mother  at  seven.  Her  mother's  voice  went  on  and  on 
about  trifles,  and  Constance  did  not  try  to  pay  atten- 
tion. Her  thought  was  following  Henry  with  ever 
sharpening  apprehension.  She  called  the  office  in  mid- 
evening;  it  would  be  open,  she  knew,  for  messages  re- 
garding Uncle  Benny  and  Alan  would  be  expected 
there.  A  clerk  answered;  no  other  news  had  been  re- 
ceived; she  then  asked  Henry's  whereabouts. 

"  Mr.  Spearman  went  north  late  this  afternoon,  Miss 
Sherrill,"  the  clerk  informed  her. 

"North?     Where?" 

"  We  are  to  communicate  with  him  this  evening  to 
Grand  Rapids ;  after  that,  to  Petoskey." 

Constance  could  hear  her  own  heart  beat.  Why 
had  Henry  gone,  she  wondered;  not,  certainly,  to  aid 
the  search.  Had  he  gone  to  —  hinder  it? 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   WATCH    UPON    THE    BEACH 

CONSTANCE  went  up  to  her  own  rooms;  she 
could  hear  her  mother  speaking,  in  a  room  on 
the  same  floor,  to  one  of  the  maids ;  but  for  her 
present  anxiety,  her  mother  offered  no  help  and  could 
not  even  be  consulted.  Nor  could  any  message  she 
might  send  to  her  father  explain  the  situation  to  him. 
She  was  throbbing  with  determination  and  action,  as 
she  found  her  purse  and  counted  the  money  in  it.  She 
never  in  her  life  had  gone  alone  upon  an  extended 
journey,  much  less  been  alone  upon  a  train  over  night. 
If  she  spoke  of  such  a  thing  now,  she  would  be  pre- 
vented; no  occasion  for  it  would  be  recognized;  she 
would  not  be  allowed  to  go,  even  if  "  properly  accom- 
panied." She  could  not,  therefore,  risk  taking  a  hand- 
bag from  the  house ;  so  she  thrust  nightdress  and  toilet 
articles  into  her  muff  and  the  roomy  pocket  of  her  fur 
coat.  She  descended  to  the  side  door  of  the  house  and, 
unobserved,  let  herself  out  noiselessly  on  to  the  carriage 
drive.  She  gained  the  street  and  turned  westward  at 
the  first  corner  to  a  street  car  which  would  take  her 
to  the  railway  station. 

There  was  a  train  to  the  north  every  evening ;  it  was 
not,  she  knew,  such  a  train  as  ran  in  the  resort  season, 
and  she  was  not  certain  of  the  exact  time  of  its  de- 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH       319 

parture ;  but  she  would  be  in  time  for  it.  The  manner 
of  buying  a  railway  ticket  and  of  engaging  a  berth 
were  unknown  to  her  —  there  had  been  servants  always 
to  do  these  things  —  but  she  watched  others  and  did  as 
they  did.  On  the  train,  the  berths  had  been  made  up ; 
people  were  going  to  bed  behind  some  of  the  curtains. 
She  procured  a  telegraph  blank  and  wrote  a  message 
to  her  mother,  telling  her  that  she  had  gone  north  to 
join  her  father.  When  the  train  had  started,  she  gave 
the  message  to  the  porter,  directing  him  to  send  it  from 
the  first  large  town  at  which  they  stopped. 

She  left  the  light  burning  in  its  little  niche  at  the 
head  of  the  berth;  she  had  no  expectation  that  she 
could  sleep ;  shut  in  by  the  green  curtains,  she  drew 
the  covers  up  about  her  and  stared  upward  at  the  pan- 
eled face  of  the  berth  overhead.  Then  new  frightened 
distrust  of  the  man  she  had  been  about  to  marry  flowed 
in  upon  her  and  became  all  her  thought. 

She  had  not  promised  Uncle  Benny  that  she  would 
not  marry  Henry ;  her  promise  had  been  that  she  would 
not  engage  herself  to  that  marriage  until  she  had  seen 
Uncle  Benny  again.  Uncle  Benny's  own  act  —  his 
disappearance — had  prevented  her  from  seeing  him; 
for  that  reason  she  had  broken  her  promise;  and,  from 
its  breaking,  something  terrifying,  threatening  to  her- 
self had  come.  She  had  been  amazed  at  what  she 
had  seen  in  Henry ;  but  she  was  appreciating  now  that, 
strangely,  in  her  thought  of  him  there  was  no  sense  of 
loss  to  herself.  Her  feeling  of  loss,  of  something  gone 
from  her  which  could  not  be  replaced,  was  for  Alan. 
She  had  had  admiration  for  Henry,  pride  in  him;  had 
she  mistaken  what  was  merely  admiration  for  love? 
She  had  been  about  to  marry  him;  had  it  been 


320  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

only  his  difference  from  the  other  men  she  knew  that 
had  made  her  do  that?  Unconsciously  to  herself,  had 
she  been  growing  to  love  Alan? 

Constance  could  not,  as  yet,  place  Henry's  part  in 
the  strange  circumstances  which  had  begun  to  reveal 
themselves  with  Alan's  coming  to  Chicago ;  but  Henry's 
hope  that  Uucle  Benny  and  Alan  were  dead  was  begin- 
ning to  makg  that  clearer.  She  lay  without  voluntary 
movement  in  her  berth,  but  her  bosom  was  shaking  with 
the  thoughts  which  came  to  her. 

Twenty  years  before,  some  dreadful  event  had  altered 
Uncle  Benny's  life;  his  wife  had  known  —  or  had 
learned  —  enough  of  that  event  so  that  she  had  left 
him.  It  had  seemed  to  Constance  and  her  father,  there- 
fore, that  it  must  have  been  some  intimate  and  private 
event.  They  had  been  confirmed  in  believing  this,  when 
Uncle  Benny,  in  madness  or  in  fear,  had  gone  away, 
leaving  everything  he  possessed  to  Alan  Conrad.  But 
Alan's  probable  relationship  to  Uncle  Benny  had  not 
been  explanation;  she  saw  now  that  it  had  even  been 
misleading.  For  a  purely  private  event  in  Uncle 
Benny's  life  —  even  terrible  scandal  —  could  not  make 
Henry  fear,  could  not  bring  terror  of  consequences  to 
himself.  That  could  be  only  if  Henry  was  involved  in 
some  peculiar  and  intimate  way  with  what  had  hap- 
pened to  Uncle  Benny.  If  he  feared  Uncle  Benny's 
being  found  alive  and  feared  Alan's  being  found  alive 
too,  now  that  Alan  had  discovered  Uncle  Benny,  it  was 
because  he  dreaded  explanation  of  his  own  connection 
with  what  had  taken  place. 

Constance  raised  her  window  shade  slightly  and 
looked  out.  It  was  still  snowing;  the  train  was  run- 
ning swiftly  among  low  sand  hills,  snow-covered,  and 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH       321 

only  dimly  visible  through  snow  and  dark.  A  deep- 
toned,  steady  roar  came  to  her  above  the  noises  of  the 
train.  The  lake!  Out  there,  Alan  and  Uncle  Benny 
were  fighting,  still  struggling  perhaps,  against  bitter 
cold  and  ice  and  rushing  water  for  their  lives.  She 
must  not  think  of  that ! 

Uncle  Benny  had  withdrawn  himself  from  men;  he 
had  ceased  to  be  active  in  his  business  and  delegated  it 
to  others.  This  change  had  been  strangely  advantage- 
ous to  Henry.  Henry  had  been  hardly  more  than  a 
common  seaman  then.  He  had  been  a  mate  —  the  mate 
on  one  of  Uncle  Benny's  ships.  Quite  suddenly  he  had 
become  Uncle  Benny's  partner.  Henry  had  explained 
this  to  her  by  saying  that  Uncle  Benny  had  felt  mad- 
ness coming  on  him  and  had  selected  him  as  the  one  to 
take  charge.  But  Uncle  Benny  had  not  trusted  Henry ; 
he  had  been  suspicious  of  him;  he  had  quarreled  with 
him.  How  strange,  then,  that  Uncle  Benny  should 
have  advanced  and  given  way  to  a  man  whom  he  could 
not  trust! 

It  was  strange,  too,  that  if  —  as  Henry  had  said  — 
their  quarrels  had  been  about  the  business,  Uncle 
Benny  had  allowed  Henry  to  remain  in  control. 

Their  quarrels  had  culminated  on  the  day  that  Uncle 
Benny  went  away.  Afterward  Uncle  Benny  had  come 
to  her  and  warned  her  not  to  marry  Henry ;  then  he  had 
sent  for  Alan.  There  had  been  purpose  in  these  acts 
of  Uncle  Benny's ;  had  they  meant  that  Uncle  Benny 
had  been  on  the  verge  of  making  explanation  —  that 
explanation  which  Henry  feared  —  and  that  he  had 
been  —  prevented?  Her  father  had  thought  this;  at 
least,  he  had  thought  that  Uncle  Benny  must  have  left 
some  explanation  in  his  house.  He  had  told  Alan  that, 


322  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

and  had  given  Alan  the  key  to  the  house  so  that  he 
could  find  it.  Alan  had  gone  to  the  house  — 

In  the  house  Alan  had  found  some  one  who  had  mis- 
taken him  for  a  ghost,  a  man  who  had  cried  out  at 
sight  of  him  something  about  a  ship  —  about  the 
Miwaka,  the  ship  of  whose  loss  no  one  had  known  any- 
thing except  by  the  sounding  of  the  Drum.  What  had 
the  man  been  doing  in  the  house?  Had  he  too  been 
looking  for  the  explanation  —  the  explanation  that 
Henry  feared?  Alan  had  described  the  man  to  her; 
that  description  had  not  had  meaning  for  her  before ; 
but  now  remembering  that  description  she  could  think 
of  Henry  as  the  only  one  who  could  have  been  in  that 
house!  Henry  had  fought  with  Alan  there!  After- 
wards, when  Alan  had  been  attacked  upon  the  street, 
had  Henry  anything  to  do  with  that? 

Henry  had  lied  to  her  about  being  in  Duluth  the 
night  he  had  fought  with  Alan ;  he  had  not  told  her  the 
true  cause  of  his  quarrels  with  Uncle  Benny ;  he  had 
wished  her  to  believe  that  Uncle  Benny  was  dead  when 
the  wedding  ring  and  watch  came  to  her  —  the  watch 
which  had  been  Captain  Stafford's  of  the  Mizeaka! 
Henry  had  urged  her  to  marry  him  at  once.  Was  that 
because  he  wished  the  security  that  her  father  — 
and  she  —  must  give  her  husband  when  they  learned 
the  revelation  which  Alan  or  Uncle  Benny  might 
bring? 

If  so,  then  that  revelation  had  to  do  with  the 
Miwaka.  It  was  of  the  M'vwaka  that  Henry  had  cried 
out  to  Alan  in  the  house ;  they  were  the  names  of  the 
next  of  kin  of  those  on  the  Miwaka  that  Uncle  Benny 
had  kept.  That  was  beginning  to  explain  to  her  some- 
thing of  the  effect  on  Henry  of  the  report  that  the 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH   323 

Drum  was  telling  that  some  on  Ferry  Number  25  were 
alive,  and  why  he  had  hurried  north  because  of  that. 
The  Drum  —  so  superstition  had  said  —  had  beat  the 
roll  of  those  who  died  with  the  Miwaka;  hadi  beaten  for 
all  but  one !  No  one  of  those  who  accepted  the  super- 
stition had  ever  been  able  to  explain  that;  but  Henry 
could!  He  knew  something  more  about  the  Miwaka 
than  others  knew.  He  had  encountered  the  Miwaka 
somehow  or  encountered  some  one  saved  from  the  Mi- 
waka; he  knew,  then,  that  the  Drum  had  beaten  cor- 
rectly for  the  Miwaka,  that  one  was  spared  as  the 
Drum  had  told!  Who  had  that  one  been?  Alan? 
And  was  he  now  among  those  for  whom  the  Drum  had 
not  yet  beat? 

She  recalled  that,  on  the  day  when  the  Miwaka  was 
lost,  Henry  and  Uncle  Benny  had  been  upon  the  lake 
in  a  tug.  Afterwards  Uncle  Benny  had  grown  rich; 
Henry  had  attained  advancement  and  wealth.  Her 
reasoning  had  brought  her  to  the  verge  of  a  terrible  dis- 
covery. If  she  could  take  one  more  step  forward  in 
her  thought,  it  would  make  her  understand  it  all.  But 
she  could  not  yet  take  that  step. 

In  the  morning,  at  Traverse  City  —  where  she  got  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  some  toast  in  the  station  eating  house 
—  she  had  to  change  to  a  day  coach.  It  had  grown 
still  more  bitterly  cold ;  the  wind  which  swept  the  long 
brick-paved  platform  of  the  station  was  arctic;  and 
even  through  the  double  windows  of  the  day  coach  she 
could  feel  its  chill.  The  points  of  Grand  Traverse  Bay 
were  frozen  across ;  frozen  across  too  was  Torch  Lake ; 
to  north  of  that,  ice,  snow-covered,  through  which 
frozen  rushes  protruded,  marked  the  long  chain  of 
little  lakes  known  as  the  "  Intermediates."  The  little 


324  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

towns  and  villages,  and  the  rolling  fields  with  their  leaf- 
less trees  or  blackened  stumps,  lay  under  drifts.  It  had 
stopped  snowing,  however,  and  she  found  relief  in  that ; 
searchers  upon  the  lake  could  see  small  boats  now  — 
if  there  were  still  small  boats  to  be  seen. 

To  the  people  in  her  Pullman,  the  destruction  of  the 
ferry  had  been  only  a  news  item  competing  for  interest 
with  other  news  on  the  front  pages  of  their  newspapers ; 
but  to  these  people  in  the  day  coach,  it  was  an  intimate 
and  absorbing  thing.  They  spoke  by  name  of  the  crew 
as  of  persons  whom  they  knew.  A  white  lifeboat,  one 
man  told  her,  had  been  seen  south  of  Beaver  Island; 
another  said  there  had  been  two  boats.  They  had 
been  far  off  from  shore,  but,  according  to  the  report 
cabled  from  Beaver,  there  had  appeared  to  be  men  in 
them;  the  men  —  her  informant's  voice  hushed  slightly 
—  had  not  been  rowing.  Constance  shuddered.  She 
had  heard  of  things  like  that  on  the  quick-freezing 
fresh  water  of  the  lakes  —  small  boats  adrift  crowded 
with  men  sitting  upright  in  them,  ice-coated,  frozen, 
lifeless! 

Petoskey,  with  its  great  hotels  closed  and  boarded  up, 
and  its  curio  shops  closed  and  locked,  was  blocked  with 
snow.  She  went  from  the  train  directly  to  the  tele- 
graph office.  If  Henry  was  in  Petoskey,  they  would 
know  at  that  office  where  he  could  be  found ;  he  would 
be  keeping  in  touch  with  them.  The  operator  in  charge 
of  the  office  knew  her,  and  his  manner  became  still  more 
deferential  when  she  asked  after  Henry. 

Mr.  Spearman,  the  man  said,  had  been  at  the  office 
early  in  the  day ;  there  had  been  no  messages  for  him ; 
he  had  left  instructions  that  any  which  came  were  to  be 
forwarded  to  him  through  the  men  who,  under  his  direc- 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH   325 

tion,  were  patroling  the  shore  fof  twenty  miles  north  of 
Little  Traverse,  watching  for  boats.  The  operator 
added  to  the  report  she  had  heard  upon  the  train.  One 
lifeboat  and  perhaps  two  had  been  seen  by  a  farmer  who 
had  been  on  the  ice  to  the  south  of  Beaver;  the  second 
boat  had  been  far  to  the  south  and  west  of  the  first  one ; 
tugs  were  cruising  there  now ;  it  had  been  many  hours, 
however,  after  the  farmer  had  seen  the  boats  before  he 
had  been  able  to  get  word  to  the  town  at  the  north  end 
of  the  island  —  St.  James  —  so  that  the  news  could 
be  cabled  to  the  mainland.  Fishermen  and  seamen, 
therefore,  regarded  it  as  more  likely,  from  the  direc- 
tion and  violence  of  the  gale,  that  the  boats,  if  they  con- 
tinued to  float,  would  be  drifted  upon  the  mainland  than 
that  they  would  be  found  by  the  tugs. 

Constance  asked  after  her  father.  Mr.  Sherrill  and 
Mr.  Spearman,  the  operator  told  her,  had  been  in  com- 
munication that  morning;  Mr.  Sherrill  had  not  come  to 
Petoskey ;  he  had  taken  charge  of  the  watch  along  the 
shore  at  its  north  end.  It  was  possible  that  the  boats 
might  drift  in  there ;  but  men  of  experience  considered 
it  more  probable  that  the  boats  would  drift  in  farther 
south  where  Mr.  Spearman  was  in  charge. 

Constance  cussed  the  frozen  edges  of  the  bay  by 
sledge  to  Harbor  Point.  The  driver  mentioned  Henry 
with  admiration  and  with  pride  in  his  acquaintance 
with  him ;  it  brought  vividly  to  her  the  recollection  that 
Henry's  rise  in  life  was  a  matter  of  personal  congratu- 
lation to  these  people  as  lending  luster  to  the  neighbor- 
hood and  to  themselves.  Henry's  influence  here  was 
far  greater  than  her  own  or  her  father's;  if  she  were 
to  move  against  Henry  or  show  him  distrust,  she  must 
work  alone;  she  could  enlist  no  aid  from  these. 


326  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

And  her  distrust  now  had  deepened  to  terrible  dread. 
She  had  not  been  able  before  this  to  form  any  definite 
idea  of  how  Henry  could  threaten  Alan  and  Uncle 
Benny ;  she  had  imagined  only  vague  interference  and 
obstruction  of  the  search  for  them ;  she  had  not  foreseen 
that  he  could  so  readily  assume  charge  of  the  search 
and  direct,  or  misdirect,  it. 

At  the  Point  she  discharged  the  sledge  and  went  on 
foot  to  the  house  of  the  caretaker  who  had  charge  of 
the  Sherrill  cottage  during  the  winter.  Getting  the 
keys  from  him,  she  let  herself  into  the  house.  The  elec- 
tric light  had  been  cut  off,  and  the  house  was  darkened 
by  shutters,  but  she  found  a  lamp  and  lit  it.  Going  to 
her  room,  she  unpacked  a  heavy  sweater  and  woolen 
cap  and  short  fur  coat  —  winter  things  which  were  left 
there  against  use  when  they  opened  the  house  some- 
times out  of  season  —  and  put  them  on.  Then  she 
went  down  and  found  her  snowshoes.  Stopping  at  the 
telephone,  she  called  long  distance  and  asked  them  to 
locate  Mr.  Sherrill,  if  possible,  and  instruct  him  to 
move  south  along  the  shore  with  whomever  he  had  with 
him.  She  went  out  then,  and  fastened  on  her  snow- 
shoes. 

It  had  grown  late.  The  early  December  dusk  - —  the 
second  dusk  since  little  boats  had  put  off  from  Number 
25 —  darkened  the  snow-locked  land.  The  wind  from 
the  west  cut  like  a  knife,  even  through  her  fur  coat. 
The  pine  trees  moaned  and  bent,  with  loud  whistlings 
of  the  wind  among  their  needles ;  the  leafless  elms  and 
maples  crashed  their  limbs  together ;  above  the  clamor 
of  all  other  sounds,  the  roaring  of  the  lake  came  to 
her,  the  booming  of  the  waves  against  the  ice,  the  shat- 
ter of  floe  on  floe.  No  snow  had  fallen  for  a  few  hours, 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH       327 

and  the  sky  was  even  clearing;  ragged  clouds  scurried 
before  the  wind  and,  opening,  showed  the  moon. 

Constance  hurried  westward  and  then  north,  follow- 
ing the  bend  of  the  shore.  The  figure  of  a  man  — 
one  of  the  shore  patrols  —  pacing  the  ice  hummocks  of 
the  beach  and  staring  out  upon  the  lake,  appeared 
vaguely  in  the  dusk  when  she  had  gone  about  two  miles. 
He  seemed  surprised  at  seeing  a  girl,  but  less  surprised 
when  he  had  recognized  her.  Mr.  Spearman,  he  told 
her,  was  to  the  north  of  them  upon  the  beach  somewhere, 
he  did  not  know  how  far;  he  could  not  leave  his  post 
to  accompany  her,  but  he  assured  her  that  there  were 
men  stationed  all  along  the  shore.  She  came,  indeed, 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  farther  on,  to  a  second  man; 
about  an  equal  distance  beyond,  she  found  a  third,  but 
passed  him  and  went  on. 

Her  legs  ached  now  with  the  unaccustomed  travel 
upon  snowshoes ;  the  cold,  which  had  been  only  a  pierc- 
ing chill  at  first,  was  stopping  feeling,  almost  stopping 
thought.  When  clouds  covered  the  moon,  complete 
darkness  came;  she  could  go  forward  only  slowly  then 
or  must  stop  and  wait ;  but  the  intervals  of  moonlight 
were  growing  longer  and  increasing  in  frequency.  As 
the  sky  cleared,  she  went  forward  quickly  for  many 
minutes  at  a  time,  straining  her  gaze  westward  over  the 
tumbling  water  and  the  floes.  It  came  to  her  with 
terrifying  apprehension  that  she  must  have  advanced 
at  least  three  miles  since  she  had  seen  the  last  patrol ; 
she  could  not  have  passed  any  one  in  the  moonlight 
without  seeing  him,  and  in  the  dark  intervals  she  had 
advanced  so  little  that  she  could  not  have  missed  one 
that  way  either. 

She  tried  to  go  faster  as  she  realized  this ;  but  now 


328  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

travel  had  become  more  difficult.  There  was  no  longer 
any  beach.  High,  precipitous  bluffs,  which  she  recog- 
nized as  marking  Seven  Mile  Point,  descended  here  di- 
rectly to  the  hummocked  ice  along  the  water's  edge. 
She  fell  many  times,  graveling  upon  these  hummocks ; 
there  were  strange,  treacherous  places  between  the 
hummocks  where,  except  for  her  snowshoes,  she  would 
have  broken  through.  Her  skirt  was  torn ;  she  lost  one 
of  her  gloves  and  could  not  stop  to  look  for  it ;  she  fell 
again  and  sharp  ice  cut  her  ungloved  hand  and  blood 
froze  upon  her  finger  tips.  She  did  not  heed  any  of 
these  things. 

She  was  horrified  to  find  that  she  was  growing  weak, 
and  that  her  senses  were  becoming  confused.  She  mis- 
took at  times  floating  ice,  metallic  under  the  moonlight, 
for  boats ;  her  heart  beat  fast  then  while  she  scrambled 
part  way  up  the  bluff  to  gain  better  sight  and  so  ascer- 
tained her  mistake.  Deep  ravines  at  places  broke  the 
shores;  following  the  bend  of  the  bluffs,  she  got  into 
these  ravines  and  only  learned  her  error  when  she  found 
that  she  was  departing  from  the  shore.  She  had  come, 
in  all,  perhaps  eight  miles ;  and  she  was  "  playing  out  " ; 
other  girls,  she  assured  herself  —  other  girls  would  not 
have  weakened  like  this ;  they  would  have  had  strength 
to  make  certain  no  boats  were  there,  or  at  least  to  get 
help.  She  had  seen  no  houses;  those,  she  knew,  stood 
back  from  the  shore,  high  upon  the  bluffs,  and  were  not 
easy  to  find;  but  she  scaled  the  bluff  now  and  looked 
about  for  lights.  The  country  was  wild  and  wooded, 
and  the  moonlight  showed  only  the  white  stretches  of 
the  shrouding  snow. 

She  descended  to  the  beach  again  and  went  on ;  her 
gaze  continued  to  search  the  lake,  but  now,  wherever 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH       329 

there  was  a  break  in  the  bluffs,  she  looked  toward  the 
shore  as  well.  At  the  third  of  these  breaks,  the  yellow 
glow  of  a  window  appeared,  marking  a  house  in  a  hollow 
between  snow-shrouded  hills.  She  turned  eagerly  that 
way ;  she  could  go  only  very  slowly  now.  There  was 
no  path;  at  least,  if  there  was,  the  snow  drifts  hid  it. 
Through  the  drifts  a  thicket  projected ;  the  pines  on  the 
ravine  sides  overhead  stood  so  close  that  only  a  silver 
tracery  of  the  moonlight  came  through;  beyond  the 
pines,  birch  trees,  stripped  of  their  bark,  stood  black 
up  to  the  white  boughs. 

Constance  climbed  over  leafless  briars  and  through 
brush  and  came  upon  a  clearing  perhaps  fifty  yards 
across,  roughly  crescent  shaped,  as  it  followed  the  con- 
figuration of  the  hills.  Dead  cornstalks,  above  the 
snow,  showed  ploughed  ground;  beyond  that,  a  little, 
black  cabin  huddled  in  the  further  point  of  the  cres- 
cent, and  Constance  gasped  with  disappointment  as  she 
saw  it.  She  had  expected  a  farmhouse ;  but  this  plainly 
was  not  even  that.  The  framework  was  of  logs  or  poles 
which  had  been  partly  boarded  over;  and  above  the 
boards  and  where  they  were  lacking,  black  building 
paper  had  been  nailed,  secured  by  big  tin  discs.  The 
rude,  weather-beaten  door  was  closed;  smoke,  however, 
came  from  a  pipe  stuck  through  the  rooft 

She  struggled  to  the  door  and  knocked  upon  it,  and 
receiving  no  reply,  she  beat  upon  it  with  both  fists. 

"Who's  here?"  she  cried.     "Who's  here?" 

The  door  opened  then  a  very  little,  and  the  fright- 
ened face  of  an  Indian  woman  appeared  in  the  crack. 
The  woman  evidently  had  expected  —  and  feared  — 
some  arrival,  and  was  reassured  when  she  saw  only  a 
girl.  She  threw  the  door  wider  open,  and  bent  to  help 


330  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

unfasten  Constance's  snowshoes ;  having  done  that,  she 
led  her  in  and  closed  the  door. 

Constance  looked  swiftly  around  the  single  room  of 
the  cabin.  There  was  a  cot  on  one  side ;  there  was  a 
table,  home  carpentered;  there  were  a  couple  of  boxes 
for  clothing  or  utensils.  The  stove,  a  good  range  once 
in  the  house  of  a  prosperous  farmer,  had  been  bricked 
up  by  its  present  owners  so  as  to  hold  fire.  Dried 
onions  and  yellow  ears  of  corn  hung  from  the  rafters; 
on  the  shelves  were  little  birchbark  canoes,  woven 
baskets,  and  porcupine  quill  boxes  of  the  ordinary  sort 
made  for  the  summer  trade.  Constance  recognized  the 
woman  now  as  one  who  had  come  sometimes  to  the  Point 
to  sell  such  things,  and  who  could  speak  fairly  good 
English.  The  woman  clearly  had  recognized  Con- 
stance at  once. 

"  Where  is  your  man?  "  Constance  had  caught  the 
woman's  arm. 

"  They  sent  for  him  to  the  beach.     A  ship  has  sunk." 

"  Are  there  houses  near  here  ?  You  must  run  to  one 
of  them  at  once.  Bring  whoever  you  can  get ;  or  if  you 
won't  do  that,  tell  me  where  to  go." 

The  woman  stared  at  her  stolidly  and  moved  away. 
"  None  near,"  she  said.  "  Besides,  you  could  not  get 
somebody  before  some  one  will  come." 

"Who  is  that?" 

"  He  is  on  the  beach  —  Henry  Spearman.  He  comes 
here  to  warm  himself.  It  is  nearly  time  he  comes 
again." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  about  here?  " 

"  Since  before  noon.  Sit  down.  I  will  make  you 
l^a." 

Constance  gazed  at  her ;  the  woman  was  plainly  glad 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH       331 

of  her  coming.  Her  relief  —  relief  from  that  fear  she 
had  been  feeling  when  she  opened  the  door  —  was  very 
evident.  It  was  Henry,  then,  who  had  frightened  her. 

The  Indian  woman  set  a  chair  for  her  beside  the 
stove,  and  put  water  in  a  pan  to  heat;  she  shook  tea 
leaves  from  a  box  into  a  bowl  and  brought  a  cup. 

"  How  many  on  that  ship  ?  " 

*'  Altogether  there  were  thirty-nine,"  Constance  re- 
plied. 

"Some  saved?" 

"  Yes ;  a  boat  was  picked  up  yesterday  morning  with 
twelve." 

The  woman  seemed  making  some  computation  which 
was  difficult  for  her. 

"  Seven  are  living  then,"  she  said. 

"  Seven?  What  have  you  heard?  What  makes  you 
think  so?" 

"  That  is  what  the  Drum  says." 

The  Drum!  There  was  a  Drum  then!  At  least 
there  was  some  sound  which  people  heard  and  which 
they  called  the  Drum.  For  the  woman  had  heard  it. 

The  woman  shifted,  checking  something  upon  her  fin- 
gers, while  her  lips  moved ;  she  was  not  counting,  Con-» 
stance  thought;  she  was  more  likely  aiding  herself  in 
translating  something  from  Indian  numeration  into 
English.  "  Two,  it  began  with,"  she  announced. 
"  Right  away  it  went  to  nine.  Sixteen  then  —  that 
was  this  morning  very  early.  Now,  all  day  and  to- 
night, it  has  been  giving  twenty.  That  leaves  seven. 
It  is  not  known  who  they  may  be." 

She  opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  roar  of 
the  water  and  the  wind,  which  had  come  loudly,  in- 
creased, and  with  it  the  wood  noises.  The  woman  was 


332  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

not  looking  about  now,  Constance  realized;  she  was 
listening.  Constance  arose  and  went  to  the  door  too. 
The  Drum !  Blood  prickled  in  her  face  and  forehead ; 
it  prickled  in  her  finger  tips.  The  Drum  was  heard 
only,  it  was  said,  in  time  of  severest  storm;  for  that 
reason  it  was  heard  most  often  in  winter.  It  was  very 
seldom  heard  by  any  one  in  summer;  and  she  was  of 
the  summer  people.  Sounds  were  coming  from  the 
woods  now.  Were  these  reverberations  the  roll  of  the 
Drum  which  beat  for  the  dead?  Her  roice  was  uncon^ 
trolled  as  she  asked  the  woman : 
"Is  that  the  Drum?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "  That's  the  trees." 
Constance's  shoulders  shook  convulsively  together. 
When  she  had  thought  about  the  Drum  —  and  when 
she  had  spoken  of  it  with  others  who,  themselves,  never 
had  heard  it  —  they  always  had  said  that,  if  there  were 
such  a  sound,  it  was  trees.  She  herself  had  heard  those 
strange  wood  noises,  terrifying  sometimes  until  their 
source  was  known  —  wailings  like  the  cry  of  some  one 
in  anguish,  which  were  caused  by  two  crossed  saplings 
rubbing  together ;  thunderings,  which  were  only  some 
smaller  trees  beating  against  a  great  hollow  trunk  when 
a  strong  wind  veered  from  a  certain  direction.  But 
this  Indian  woman  must  know  all  such  sounds  well ;  and 
to  her  the  Drum  was  something  distinct  from  them. 
The  woman  specified  that  now. 

"  You'll  know  the  Drum  when  you  hear  it." 
Constance  grew  suddenly  cold.  For  twenty  lives, 
the  woman  said,  the  Drum  had  beat ;  that  meant  to  her, 
and  to  Constance  too  now,  that  seven  were  left.  Indefi- 
nite, desperate  denial  that  all  from  the  ferry  must  be 
dead  —  that  denial  which  had  been  strengthened  by  the 


THE  WATCH  UPON  THE  BEACH      333 

ne"ws  that  at  least  one  boat  had  been  adrift  near  Beaver 

—  altered  in  Constance  to  conviction  of  a  boat  with 
seven  men  from  the  ferry,  seven  dying,  perhaps,  but 
not  yet  dead.     Seven  out  of  twenty-seven !     The  score 
were  gone ;  the  Drum  had  beat  for  them  in  little  groups 
as  they  had  died.     When  the  Drum  beat  again,  would 
it  beat  beyond  the  score? 

The  woman  drew  back  and  closed  the  door ;  the  water 
was  hot  now,  and  she  made  the  tea  and  poured  a  cup  for 
Constance.  As  she  drank  it,  Constance  was  listening 
for  the  Drum;  the  woman  too  was  listening.  Having 
finished  the  tea,  Constance  returned  to  the  door  and 
reopened  it ;  the  sounds  outside  were  the  same.  A  sol- 
itary figure  appeared  moving  along  the  edge  of  the  ice 

—  the   figure   of   a  tall  man,   walking  on   snowshoes ; 
moonlight  distorted  the  figure,  and  it  was  muffled  too  in 
a  great  coat  which  made  it  unrecognizable.     He  halted 
and  stood  looking  out  at  the  lake  and  then,  with  a 
sudden  movement,  strode  on;  he  halted  again,  and  now 
Constance  got  the  knowledge  that  he  was  not  looking; 
he  was  listening  as  she  was.     He  was  not  merely  listen- 
ing; his  body  swayed  and  bent  to  a  rhythm  —  he  was 
counting  something  that  he  heard.     Constance  strained 
her  ears ;  but  she  could  hear  no  sound  except  those  of 
the  waters  and  the  wind. 

"  Is  the  Drum  sounding  now  ?  "  she  asked  the  woman. 

«  No." 

Constance  gazed  again  at  the  man  and  found  his 
motion  quite  unmistakable;  he  was  counting  —  if  not 
counting  something  that  he  heard,  or  thought  he  heard, 
he  was  recounting  and  reviewing  within  himself  some- 
thing that  he  had  heard  before  —  some  irregular 
rhythm  which  had  become  so  much  a  part  of  him  that  it 


334  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

sounded  now  continually  within  his  own  brain ;  so  that, 
instinctively,  he  moved  in  cadence  to  it.  He  stepped 
forward  again  now,  and  turned  toward  the  house. 

Her  breath  caught  as  she  spoke  to  the  woman. 
"  Mr.  Spearman  is  coming  here  now !  " 

Her  impulse  was  to  remain  where  she  was,  lest  he 
should  think  she  was  afraid  of  him ;  but  realization  came 
to  her  that  there  might  be  advantage  in  seeing  him 
before  he  knew  that  she  was  there,  so  she  reclosed  the 
door  and  drew  back  into  the  cabin. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    SOUNDING    OF    THE    DRUM 

NOISES  of  the  wind  and  the  roaring  of  the  lake 
made  inaudible  any  sound  of  his  approach  to 
the  cabin;  she  heard  his  snowshoes,  however, 
scrape  the  cabin  wall  as,  after  taking  them  off,  he 
leaned  them  beside  the  door.  He  thrust  the  door  open 
then  and  came  in ;  he  did  not  see  her  at  first  and,  as  he 
turned  to  force  the  door  shut  again  against  the  wind, 
she  watched  him  quietly.  She  understood  at  once  why 
the  Indian  woman  had  been  afraid  of  him.  His  face 
was  bloodless,  yellow,  and  swollen-looking,  his  eyes 
bloodshot,  his  lips  strained  to  a  thin,  straight  line. 

He  saw  her  now  and  started  and,  as  though  sight  of 
her  confused  him,  he  looked  away  from  the  woman  and 
then  back  to  Constance  before  he  seemed  certain  of  her. 

"  Hello !  "  he  said  tentatively.     «  Hello !  " 

"  I'm  here,  Henry." 

"Oh;  you  are!  You  are!"  He  stood  drawn  up, 
swaying  a  little  as  he  stared  at  her ;  whiskey  was  upon 
his  breath,  and  it  became  evident  in  the  heat  of  the 
room ;  but  whiskey  could  not  account  for  this  con- 
dition she  witnessed  in  him.  Neither  could  it  conceal 
that  condition;  some  turmoil  and  strain  within  him 
made  him  immune  to  its  effects. 

She  had  realized  on  her  way  up  here  what,  vaguely, 
that  strain  within  him  must  be.  Guilt  —  guilt  of  some 


336  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

awful  sort  connected  him,  and  had  connected  Uncle 
Benny,  with  the  Miwaka  —  the  lost  ship  for  which  the 
Drum  had  beaten  the  roll  of  the  dead.  Now  dread  of 
revelation  of  that  guilt  had  brought  him  here  near  to 
the  Drum;  he  had  been  alone  upon  the  beach  twelve 
hours,  the  woman  had  said  —  listening,  counting  the 
beating  of  the  Drum  for  another  ship,  fearing  the  sur- 
vival of  some  one  from  that  ship.  Guilt  was  in  his 
thought  now  —  racking,  tearing  at  him.  But  there 
was  something  more  than  that;  what  she  had  seen  in 
him  when  he  first  caught  sight  of  her  was  fear  —  fear 
of  her,  of  Constance  Sherrill. 

He  was  fully  aware,  she  now  understood,  that  he  had 
in  a  measure  betrayed  himself  to  her  in  Chicago ;  and  he 
had  hoped  to  cover  up  and  to  dissemble  that  betrayal 
with  her.  For  that  reason  she  was  the  last  person  in 
the  world  whom  he  wished  to  find  here  now. 

"  The  point  is,"  he  said  heavily,  "  why  are  you 
here?" 

"  I  decided  to  come  up  last  night." 

"  Obviously."  He  uttered  the  word  slowly  and  with 
care.  "  Unless  you  came  in  a  flying  machine.  Who 
came  with  you?  " 

"  No  one ;  I  came  alone.  I  expected  to  find  father 
at  Petoskey ;  he  hadn't  been  there,  so  I  came  on  here." 

"After  him?" 

"  No ;  after  you,  Henry." 

"  After  me  ?  "  She  had  increased  the  apprehension 
in  him,  and  he  considered  and  scrutinized  her  before  he 
ventured  to  go  on.  "  Because  you  wanted  to  be  up 
here  with  me,  eh,  Connie?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  " 

"What's  that?" 


THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  DRUM        337 

"  Of  course  not !  " 

"  I  knew  it ! "  he  moved  menacingly.  She  watched 
him  quite  without  fear;  fear  was  for  him,  she  felt,  not 
her.  Often  she  had  wished  that  she  might  have  known 
him  when  he  was  a  young  man ;  now,  she  was  aware  that, 
in  a  way,  she  was  having  that  wish.  Under  the  surface 
of  the  man  whose  strength  and  determination  she  had 
admired,  all  the  time  had  been  this  terror  —  this  guilt. 
If  Uncle  Benny  had  carried  it  for  a  score  of  years, 
Henry  had  had  it  within  him  too.  This  had  been 
within  him  all  the  time! 

"  You  came  up  here  about  Ben  Corvet  ?  "  he  chal- 
lenged. 

"  Yes  —  no !  " 

"Which  do  you  mean?" 

"  No." 

"  I  know  then.     For  him,  then  —  eh.     For  him !  " 

"  For  Alan  Conrad?     Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  knew  it !  "  he  repeated.  "  He's  been  the  trouble 
between  you  and  me  all  the  time !  " 

She  made  no  denial  of  that;  she  had  begun  to  know 
during  the  last  two  days  that  it  was  so. 

"  So  you  came  to  find  him  ?  "  Henry  went  on. 

"  Yes,  Henry.     Have  you  any  news  ?  " 

"News?" 

"News  of  the  boats?" 

"  News !  "  he  iterated.  "  News  to-night !  No  one'll 
have  more'n  one  news  to-night !  " 

From  his  slow,  heavy  utterance,  a  timbre  of  terrible 
satisfaction  betrayed  itself;  his  eyes  widened  a  little 
as  he  saw  it  strike  Constance,  then  his  lids  narrowed 
again.  He  had  not  meant  to  say  it  that  way ;  yet,  for 
an  instant,  satisfaction  to  him  had  become  inseparable 


338  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

from  the  saying,  before  that  was  followed  by  fright  — 
the  fright  of  examination  of  just  what  he  had  said  or 
of  what  she  had  made  of  it. 

"He'll  be  found!"  she  defied  him. 

"  Be  found?  " 

"  Some  are  dead,"  she  admitted,  "  but  not  all. 
Twenty  are  dead ;  but  seven  are  not !  " 

She  looked  for  confirmation  to  the  Indian  woman,  who 
nodded:  "Yes.."  He  moved  his  head  to  face  the 
woman,  but  his  eyes,  unmoving,  remained  fixed  on  Con- 
stance. 

*'  Seven  ?  "  he  echoed.  "  You  say  seven  are  not ! 
How  do  you  know?  " 

"  The  Drum  has  been  beating  for  twenty,  but  not 
for  more ! "  Constance  said.  Thirty  hours  before, 
when  she  had  told  Henry  of  the  Drum,  she  had  done  it 
without  belief  herself,  without  looking  for  belief  in  him. 
But  now,  whether  or  not  she  yet  believed  or  simply 
clung  to  the  superstition  for  its  shred  of  hope,  it  gave 
her  a  weapon  to  terrify  him ;  for  he  believed  —  believed 
with  all  the  unreasoning  horror  of  his  superstition  and 
the  terror  of  long-borne  and  hidden  guilt. 

"  The  Drum,  Henry !  "  she  repeated.  "  The  Drum 
you've  been  listening  to  all  day  upon  the  beach  —  the 
Indian  Drum  that  sounded  for  the  dead  of  the  M'vtcaka; 
sounded,  one  by  one,  for  all  who  died!  But  it  didn't 
sound  for  him!  It's  been  sounding  again,  you  know; 
but,  again,  it  doesn't  sound  for  him,  Henry,  not  for 
him ! " 

"The  Miicaka!  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
What's  that  got  to  do  with  this  ?  "  His  swollen  face 
was  thrust  forward  at  her;  there  was  threat  against 
her  in  his  tense  muscles  and  his  bloodshot  eyes. 


THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  DRUM        339 

She  did  not  shrink  back  from  him,  or  move ;  and  now 
he  was  not  waiting  for  her  answer.  Something  —  a 
sound  —  had  caught  him  about.  Once  it  echoed,  low 
in  its  reverberation  but  penetrating  and  quite  distinct. 
It  came,  so  far  as  direction  could  be  assigned  to  it, 
from  the  trees  toward  the  shore;  but  it  was  like  no 
forest  sound.  Distinct  too  was  it  from  any  noise  of 
the  lake.  It  was  like  a  Drum !  Yet,  when  the  echo  had 
gone,  it  was  a  sensation  easy  to  deny  —  a  hallucina- 
tion, that  was  all.  But  now,  low  and  distinct  it  came 
again ;  and,  as  before,  Constance  saw  it  catch  Henry 
and  hold  him.  His  lips  moved,  but  he  did  not  speak; 
he  was  counting.  "  Two,"  she  saw  his  lips  form. 

The  Indian  woman  passed  them  and  opened  the  door, 
and  now  the  sound,  louder  and  more  distinct,  came 
again. 

"  The  Drum !  "  she  whispered,  without  looking  about. 
"You  hear?  Three,  I've  heard.  Now  four!  It  will 
beat  twenty ;  then  we  will  know  if  more  are  dead ! " 

The  door  blew  from  the  woman's  hand,  and  snow, 
swept  up  from  the  drifts  of  the  slope,  swirled  into  the 
room ;  the  draft  blew  the  flame  of  the  lamp  in  a  smoky 
streak  up  the  glass  chimney  and  snuffed  it  out.  The 
moonlight  painted  a  rectangle  on  the  floor;  the  moon- 
light gave  a  green,  shimmering  world  without.  Hur- 
ried spots  of  cloud  shuttered  away  the  moon  for  mo- 
ments, casting  shadows  which  swept  raggedly  up  the 
slope  from  the  shore.  The  woman  seized  the  door  and, 
tugging  it  about  against  the  gale,  she  slammed  it  shut. 
She  did  not  try  at  once  to  relight  the  lamp. 

The  sound  of  the  Drum  was  continuing,  the  beats  a 
few  seconds  apart.  The  opening  of  the  door  outside 
had  seemed  to  Constance  to  make  the  beats  come 


340  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

louder  and  more  distinct ;  but  the  closing  of  the  door 
did  not  muffle  them  again.  "  Twelve,"  Constance 
counted  to  herself.  The  beats  had  seemed  to  be  quite 
measured  and  regular  at  first;  but  now  Constance 
knew  that  this  was  only  roughly  true ;  they  beat  rather 
in  rhythm  than  at  regular  intervals.  Two  came  close 
together  and  there  was  a  longer  wait  before  the  next ; 
then  three  sounded  before  the  measure  —  a  wild,  leap- 
ing rhythm.  She  recalled  having  heard  that  the 
strangeness  of  Indian  music  to  civilized  ears  was  its 
time ;  the  drums  beat  and  rattles  sounded  in  a  different 
time  from  the  song  which  they  accompanied ;  there  were 
even,  in  some  dances,  three  different  times  contending 
for  supremacy.  Now  this  seemed  reproduced  in  the 
strange,  irregular  sounding  of  the  Drum ;  she  could  not 
count  with  certainty  those  beats.  "  Twenty  —  twenty- 
one —  twenty-two!"  Constance  caught  breath  and 
waited  for  the  next  beat;  the  time  of  the  interval  be- 
tween the  measures  of  the  rh\-thm  passed,  and  still  only 
the  whistle  of  the  wind  and  the  undertone  of  water 
sounded.  The  Drum  had  beaten  its  roll  and,  for  the 
moment,  was  done. 

"  Now  it  begins  again,"  the  woman  whispered.  "  Al- 
ways it  waits  and  then  it  begins  over." 

Constance  let  go  her  breath;  the  next  beat  then 
would  not  mean  another  death.  Twenty-two,  had  been 
her  count,  as  nearly  as  she  could  count  at  all ;  the  reck- 
oning agreed  with  what  the  woman  had  heard.  Two 
had  died,  then,  since  the  Drum  last  had  beat,  when  its 
roll  was  twenty.  Two  more  than  before;  that  meant 
five  were  left!  Yet  Constance,  while  she  was  appreci- 
ating this,  strained  forward,  staring  at  Henry;  she 
could  not  be  certain,  in  the  flickering  shadows  of  the 


THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  DRUM        341 

cabin,  of  what  she  was  seeing  in  him;  still  less,  in  the 
sudden  stoppage  of  heart  and  breathing  that  it 
brought,  could  she  find  coherent  answer  to  its  meaning. 
But  still  it  turned  her  weak,  then  spurred  her  with  a 
vague  and  terrible  impulse. 

The  Indian  woman  lifted  the  lamp  chimney  waver- 
ingly  and  scratched  a  match  and,  with  unsteady  hands, 
lighted  the  wick ;  Constance  caught  up  her  woolen  hood 
from  the  table  and  put  it  on.  Her  action  seemed  to  call 
Henry  to  himself. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I'm  going  out." 

He  moved  between  her  and  the  door.  "  Not  alone, 
you're  not !  "  His  heavy  voice  had  a  deep  tone  of 
menace  in  it ;  he  seemed  to  consider  and  decide  some- 
thing about  her.  "  There's  a  farmhouse  about  a  mile 
back ;  I'm  going  to  take  you  over  there  and  leave  you 
with  those  people." 

"  I  will  not  go  there !  " 

He  swore.     "  I'll  carry  you  then !  " 

She  shrank  back  from  him  as  he  lurched  toward  her 
with  hands  outstretched  to  seize  her;  he  followed  her, 
and  she  avoided  him  again ;  if  his  guilt  and  terror  had 
given  her  mental  ascendency  over  him,  his  physical 
strength  could  still  force  her  to  his  will  and,  realizing 
the  impossibility  of  evading  him  or  overcoming  him,  she 
stopped. 

"  Not  that !  "  she  cried.     "  Don't  touch  me !  " 

"  Come  with  me  then ! "  he  commanded ;  and  he  went 
to  the  door  and  laid  his  snowshoes  on  the  snow  and 
stepped  into  them,  stooping  and  tightening  the  straps ; 
he  stood  by  while  she  put  on  hers.  He  did  not  attempt 
again  to  put  hands  upon  her  as  they  moved  away  from 


342  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  little  cabin  toward  the  woods  back  of  the  clearing; 
but  went  ahead,  breaking  the  trail  for  her  with  his 
snowshoes.  He  moved  forward  slowly ;  he  could  travel, 
if  he  had  wished,  three  feet  to  every  two  that  she  could 
cover,  but  he  seemed  not  wishing  for  speed  but  rather 
for  delay.  They  reached  the  trees ;  the  hemlock  and 
pine,  black  and  swaying,  shifted  their  shadows  on  the 
moonlit  snow;  bare  maples  and  beeches,  bent  by  the 
gale,  creaked  and  cracked ;  now  the  hemlock  was  heavier. 
The  wind,  which  wailed  among  the  branches  of  the 
maples,  hissed  loudly  in  the  needles  of  the  hemlocks ; 
snow  swept  from  the  slopes  and  whirled  and  drove  about 
them,  and  she  sucked  it  in  with  her  breath.  All 
through  the  wood  were  noises;  a  moaning  came  from  a 
dark  copse  of  pine  and  hemlock  to  their  right,  rose  and 
died  away ;  a  wail  followed  —  a  whining,  whimpering 
wail  —  so  like  the  crying  of  a  child  that  it  startled  her. 
Shadows  seemed  to  detach  themselves,  as  the  trees 
swayed,  to  tumble  from  the  boughs  and  scurry  over  the 
snow;  they  hid,  as  one  looked  at  them,  then  darted  on 
and  hid  behind  the  tree  trunks. 

Henry  was  barely  moving;  now  he  slowed  still  more. 
A  deep,  dull  resonance  was  booming  above  the  wood ;  it 
boomed  again  and  ran  into  a  rhythm.  No  longer  was 
it  above ;  at  least  it  was  not  only  above ;  it  was  all  about 
them  — •  here,  there,  to  right  and  to  left,  before,  be- 
hind —  the  booming  of  the  Drum.  Doom  was  the  sub- 
stance of  that  sound  of  the  Drum  beating  the  roll  of 
the  dead.  Could  there  be  abiding  in  the  wood  a  con- 
sciousness which  counted  that  roll?  Constance  fought 
the  mad  feeling  that  it  brought.  The  sound  must  have 
some  natural  cause,  she  repeated  to  herself  —  waves 
washing  in  some  strange  conformation  of  the  ice  caves 


THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  DRUM        343 

on  the  shore,  wind  reverberating  within  some  great  hol- 
low tree  trunk  as  within  the  pipe  of  an  organ.  But 
Henry  was  not  denying  the  Drum ! 

He  had  stopped  in  front  of  her,  half  turned  her  way ; 
his  body  swayed  and  bent  to  the  booming  of  the  Drum, 
as  his  swollen  lips  counted  its  soundings.  She  could 
see  him  plainly  in  the  moonlight,  yet  she  drew  nearer 
to  him  as  she  followed  his  count.  "  Twenty-one,"  he 
counted — "Twenty-two!"  The  Drum  was  still  go- 
ing on.  "  Twenty-four  —  twenty-five  —  twenty-six !  " 
Would  he  count  another? 

He  did  not ;  and  her  pulses,  which  had  halted,  leaped 
with  relief ;  and  through  her  comprehension  rushed.  It 
was  thus  she  had  seen  him  counting  in  the  cabin,  but  so 
vaguely  that  she  had  not  been  certain  of  it,  but  only 
able  to  suspect.  Then  the  Drum  had  stopped  short  of 
twenty-six,  but  he  had  not  stopped  counting  because  of 
that ;  he  had  made  the  sounds  twenty-six,  when  she  and 
the  woman  had  made  them,  twenty-two;  now  he  had 
reckoned  them  twenty-six,  though  the  Drum,  as  she 
separated  the  sound  from  other  noises,  still  went  on! 

He  moved  on  again,  descending  the  steep  side  of  a 
little  ravine,  and  she  followed.  One  of  his  snowshoes 
caught  in  a  protruding  root  and,  instead  of  slowing  to 
free  it  with  care,  he  pulled  it  violently  out,  and  she 
heard  the  dry,  seasoned  wood  crack.  He  looked  down, 
swore ;  saw  that  the  wood  was  not  broken  through  and 
went  on ;  but  as  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  slope,  she 
leaped  downward  from  a  little  height  behind  him  and 
crashed  down  upon  his  trailing  snowshoe  just  behind 
the  heel.  The  rending  snap  of  the  wood  came  beneath 
her  feet.  Had  she  broken  through  his  shoe  or  snapped 
her  own?  She  sprang  back,  as  he  cried  out  and  swung 


344  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

in  an  attempt  to  grasp  her;  he  lunged  to  follow  her, 
and  she  ran  a  few  steps  away  and  stopped.  At  his  next 
step,  his  foot  entangled  in  the  mesh  of  the  broken  snow- 
shoe,  and  he  stooped,  cursing,  to  strip  it  off  and  hurl 
it  from  him;  then  he  tore  off  the  one  from  the  other 
foot,  and  threw  it  away,  and  lurched  after  her  again; 
but  now  he  sank  above  his  knees  and  floundered  in  the 
snow.  She  stood  for  a  moment  while  the  half-mad, 
half-drunken  figure  struggled  toward  her  along  the  side 
of  the  ravine ;  then  she  ran  to  where  the  tree  trunks  hid 
her  from  him,  but  where  she  could  look  out  from  the 
shadow  and  see  him.  He  gained  the  top  of  the  slope 
and  turned  in  the  direction  she  had  gone;  assured 
then,  apparently,  that  she  had  fled  in  fear  of  him,  he 
started  back  more  swiftly  toward  the  beach.  She  fol- 
lowed, keeping  out  of  his  sight  among  the  trees. 

To  twenty-six,  he  had  counted  —  to  twenty-six,  each 
time!  That  told  that  he  knew  one  was  living  among 
those  who  had  been  upon  the  ferry!  The  Drum  —  it 
was  not  easy  to  count  with  exactness  those  wild,  irreg- 
ularly leaping  sounds;  one  might  make  of  them  almost 
what  one  wished  —  or  feared !  And  if,  in  his  terror 
here,  Henry  made  the  count  twenty-six,  it  was  because 
he  knew  —  he  knew  that  one  was  living!  What  one? 
It  could  only  be  one  of  two  to  dismay  him  so ;  there  had 
been  only  two  on  the  ferry  whose  rescue  he  had  feared ; 
only  two  who,  living,  he  would  have  let  lie  upon  this 
beach  which  he  had  chosen  and  set  aside  for  his  patrol, 
while  he  waited  for  him  to  die! 

She  forced  herself  on,  unsparingly,  as  she  saw  Henry 
gain  the  shore  and  as,  believing  himself  alone,  he  hur- 
ried northward.  She  went  with  him,  paralleling  his 
course  among  the  trees.  On  the  wind-swept  ridges  of 


THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  DRUM        345 

the  ice,  where  there  was  little  snow,  he  could  travel  for 
long  stretches  faster  than  she;  she  struggled  to  keep 
even  with  him,  her  lungs  seared  by  the  cold  air  as  she 
gasped  for  breath.  But  she  could  not  rest;  she  could 
not  let  herself  be  exhausted.  Merciless  minute  after 
minute  she  raced  him  thus  —  A  dark  shape  —  a  figure 
lay  stretched  upon  the  ice  ahead!  Beyond  and  still 
farther  out,  something  which  seemed  the  fragments  of 
a  lifeboat  tossed  up  and  down  where  the  waves  thun* 
dered  and  gleamed  at  the  edge  of  the  floe. 

Henry's  pace  quickened;  hers  quickened  desperately 
too.  She  left  the  shelter  of  the  trees  and  scrambled 
down  the  steep  pitch  of  the  bluff,  shouting,  crying 
aloud.  Henry  turned  about  and  saw  her;  he  halted, 
and  she  passed  him  with  a  rush  and  got  between  him 
and  the  form  upon  the  ice,  before  she  turned  and  faced 
him. 

Defeat  —  defeat  of  whatever  frightful  purpose  he 
had  had  —  was  his  now  that  she  was  there  to  witness 
what  he  might  do ;  and  in  his  realization  of  that,  he 
burst  out  in  oaths  against  her  —  He  advanced ;  she 
stood,  confronting  —  he  swayed  slightly  in  his  walk 
and  swung  past  her  and  away;  he  went  past  those 
things  on  the  beach  and  kept  on  along  the  ice  hummocks 
toward  the  north. 

She  ran  to  the  huddled  figure  of  the  man  in  mack- 
inaw  and  cap ;  his  face  was  hidden  partly  by  the 
position  in  which  he  lay  and  partly  by  the  drifting 
snow;  but,  before  she  swept  the  snow  away  and  turned 
him  to  her,  she  knew  that  he  was  Alan. 

She  cried  to  him  and,  when  he  did  not  answer,  she 
shook  him  to  get  him  awake ;  but  she  could  not  rouse 
him.  Praying  in  wild  whispers  to  herself,  she  opened 


346  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

his  jacket  and  felt  within  his  clothes;  he  was  warm  — 
at  least  he  was  not  frozen  within !  No ;  and  there 
seemed  some  stir  of  his  heart !  She  tried  to  lift  him,  to 
carry  him ;  then  to  drag  him.  But  she  could  not ;  he 
fell  from  her  arms  into  the  snow  again,  and  she  sat 
down,  pulling  him  upon  her  lap  and  clasping  him  to  her. 
She  must  have  aid,  she  must  get  him  to  some  house, 
she  must  take  him  out  of  the  terrible  cold;  but  dared 
she  leave  him?  Might  Henry  return,  if  she  went  away? 
She  arose  and  looked  about.  Far  up  the  shore  she  saw 
his  figure  rising  and  falling  with  his  flight  over  the 
rough  ice.  A  sound  came  to  her  too,  the  low,  deep 
reverberation  of  the  Drum  beating  once  more  along  the 
shore  and  in  the  woods  and  out  upon  the  lake;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Henry's  figure,  in  the  stumbling 
steps  of  its  flight,  was  keeping  time  to  the  wild  rhythm 
of  that  sound.  And  she  stooped  to  Alan  and  covered 
him  with  her  coat,  before  leaving  him;  for  she  feared 
no  longer  Henry's  return. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THB    FATE    OF    THE    "  MIWAKA 


"  No,  Alan  ;  this  is  an  Indian's  house,  but  it 
is  not  mine.  It  is  Adam  Enos'  house.  He  and 
his  wife  went  somewhere  else  when  you  needed  this." 

"  He  helped  to  bring  me  here  then?  " 

"  No,  Alan.  They  were  alone  here  —  she  and 
Adam's  wife.  When  she  found  you,  they  brought  you 
here  —  more  than  a  mile  along  the  beach.  Two 
women  !  " 

Alan  choked  as  he  put  down  the  little  porcupine  quill 
box  which  had  started  this  line  of  inquiry.  Whatever 
questions  he  had  asked  of  Judah  or  of  Sherrill  these  last 
few  days  had  brought  him  very  quickly  back  to  her. 
Moved  by  some  intuitive  certainty  regarding  Spearman, 
she  had  come  north  ;  she  had  not  thought  of  peril  to 
herself;  she  had  struggled  alone  across  dangerous  ice 
in  storm  —  a  girl  brought  up  as  she  had  been  !  She 
had  found  him  —  Alan  —  with  life  almost  extinct  upon 
the  beach;  she  and  the  Indian  woman,  Wassaquam  had 
just  said,  had  brought  him  along  the  shore.  How  had 
they  managed  that,  he  wondered  ;  they  had  somehow  got 
him  to  this  house  which,  in  his  ignorance  of  exactly 
where  he  was  upon  the  mainland,  he  had  thought  must 
be  Wassaquam's;  she  had  gone  to  get  help  —  His 


348  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

throat  closed  up,  and  his  eyes  filled  as  he  thought  of 
this. 

In  the  week  during  which  he  had  been  cared  for  here, 
Alan  had  not  seen  Constance;  but  there  had  been  a 
peculiar  and  exciting  alteration  in  Sherrill's  manner 
toward  him,  he  had  felt;  it  was  something  more  than 
merely  liking  for  him  that  Sherrill  had  showed,  and 
Sherrill  had  spoken  of  her  to  him  as  Constance,  not,  as 
he  had  called  her  always  before,  "  Miss  Sherrill "  or 
"  my  daughter."  Alan  had  had  dreams  which  had 
seemed  impossible  of  fulfilment,  of  dedicating  his  life 
and  all  that  he  could  make  of  it  to  her ;  now  Sherrill's 
manner  had  brought  to  him  something  like  awe,  as  of 
something  quite  incredible. 

When  he  had  believed  that  disgrace  was  his  —  dis- 
grace because  he  was  Benjamin  Corvet's  son  —  he  had 
hidden,  or  tried  to  hide,  his  feeling  toward  her ;  he 
knew  now  that  he  was  not  Corvet's  son ;  Spearman  had 
shot  his  father,  Corvet  had  said.  But  he  could  not  be 
certain  yet  who  his  father  was  or  what  revelation  re- 
garding himself  might  now  be  given.  Could  he  dare  to 
betray  that  he  was  thinking  of  Constance  as  —  as  he 
could  not  keep  from  thinking?  He  dared  not  without 
daring  to  dream  that  Sherrill's  manner  meant  that  she 
could  care  for  him;  and  that  he  could  not  presume. 
What  she  had  undergone  for  him  —  her  venture  alone 
up  the  beach  and  that  dreadful  contest  which  had  taken 
place  between  her  and  Spearman  —  must  remain  cir- 
cumstances which  he  had  learned  but  from  which  he 
could  not  yet  take  conclusions. 

He  turned  to  the  Indian. 

"  Has  anything  more  been  heard  of  Spearman,  Ju- 
dah?" 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   349 

"  Only  this,  Alan ;  he  crossed  the  Straits  the 
next  day  upon  the  ferry  there.  In  Mackinaw  City 
he  bought  liquor  at  a  bar  and  took  it  with  him;  he 
asked  there  about  trains  into  the  northwest.  He 
has  gone,  leaving  all  he  had.  What  else  could  he 
do?" 

Alan  crossed  the  little  cabin  and  looked  out  the  win- 
dow over  the  snow-covered  slope,  where  the  bright  sun 
was  shining.  It  was  very  still  without;  there  was  no 
motion  at  all  in  the  pines  toward  the  ice-bound  shore; 
and  the  shadow  of  the  wood  smoke  rising  from  the 
cabin  chimney  made  almost  a  straight  line  across  the 
snow.  Snow  had  covered  any  tracks  that  there  had 
been  upon  the  beach  where  those  who  had  been  in  the 
boat  with  him  had  been  found  dead.  He  had  known 
that  this  must  be;  he  had  believed  them  beyond  aid 
when  he  had  tried  for  the  shore  to  summon  help  for 
them  and  for  himself.  The  other  boat,  which  had  car- 
ried survivors  of  the  wreck,  blown  farther  to  the  south, 
had  been  able  to  gain  the  shore  of  North  Fox  Island; 
and  as  these  men  had  not  been  so  long  exposed  before 
they  were  brought  to  shelter,  four  men  lived.  Sherrill 
had  told  him  their  names;  they  were  the  mate,  the 
assistant  engineer,  a  deckhand  and  Father  Perron,  the 
priest  who  had  been  a  passenger  but  who  had  stayed 
with  the  crew  till  the  last.  Benjamin  Corvet  had  per- 
ished in  the  wreckage  of  the  cars. 

As  Alan  went  back  to  his  chair,  the  Indian  watched 
him  and  seemed  not  displeased. 

"  You  feel  good  now,  Alan  ?  "  Wassaquam  asked. 

"  Almost  like  myself,  Judah." 

"  That  is  right  then.  It  was  thought  you  would  be 
like  that  to-day."  He  looked  at  the  long  shadows  and 


350  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

at  the  height  of  the  early  morning  sun,  estimating  the 
time  of  day.  "  A  sled  is  coming  soon  now." 

"  We're  going  to  leave  here,  Judah?  " 

"  Yes,  Alan." 

Was  he  going  to  see  her  then?  Excitement  stirred 
him,  and  he  turned  to  Wassaquam  to  ask  that ;  but 
suddenly  he  hesitated  and  did  not  inquire. 

Wassaquam  brought  the  mackinaw  and  cap  which 
Alan  had  worn  on  Number  25 ;  he  took  from  the  bed 
the  new  blankets  which  had  been  furnished  by  Sherrill. 
They  waited  until  a  farmer  appeared  driving  a  team 
hitched  to  a  low,  wide-runnered  sled.  The  Indian  set- 
tled Alan  on  the  sled,  and  they  drove  off. 

The  farmer  looked  frequently  at  Alan-with  curious 
interest;  the  sun  shone  down,  dazzling,  and  felt  almost 
warm  in  the  still  air.  Wassaquam,  with  regard  for 
the  frostbite  from  which  Alan  had  been  suffering,  bun- 
dled up  the  blankets  around  him ;  but  Alan  put  them 
down  reassuringly.  They  traveled  south  along  the 
shore,  rounded  into  Little  Traverse  Bay,  and  the 
houses  of  Harbor  Point  appeared  among  their  pines. 
Alan  could  see  plainly  that  these  were  snow-weighted 
and  boarded  up  without  sign  of  occupation ;  but  he  saw 
that  the  Sherrill  house  was  open;  smoke  rose  from  the 
chimney,  and  the  windows  winked  with  the  reflection 
of  a  red  blaze  within.  He  was  so  sure  that  this  was 
their  destination  that  he  started  to  throw  off  the  robes. 

"Nobody  there  now,"  Wassaquam  indicated  the 
house.  "  At  Petoskey ;  we  go  on  there." 

The  sled  proceeded  across  the  edge  of  the  bay  to 
the  little  city ;  even  before  leaving  the  bay  ice,  Alan  saw 
Constance  and  her  father;  they  were  walking  at  the 
water  front  near  to  the  railway  station,  and  they 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   351 

came  out  on  the  ice  as  they  recognized  the  occupants 
of  the  sled. 

Alan  felt  himself  alternately  weak  and  roused  to 
strength  as  he  saw  her.  The  sled  halted  and,  as  she 
approached,  he  stepped  down.  Their  eyes  encoun- 
tered, and  hers  looked  away;  a  sudden  shyness,  which 
sent  his  heart  leaping,  had  come  over  her.  He  wanted 
to  speak  to  her,  to  make  some  recognition  to  her  of 
what  she  had  done,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  trust  his 
voice;  and  she  seemed  to  understand  that.  He  turned 
to  Sherrill  instead.  An  engine  and  tender  coupled  to 
a  single  car  stood  at  the  railway  station. 

"  We're  going  to  Chicago  ?  "  he  inquired  of  Sherrill. 

"  Not  yet,  Alan  —  to  St.  Ignace.  Father  Perron 
—  the  priest,  you  know  —  went  to  St.  Ignace  as  soon 
as  he  recovered  from  his  exposure.  He  sent  word  to 
me  that  he  wished  to  see  me  at  my  convenience;  I  told 
him  that  we  would  go  to  him  as  soon  as  you  were 
able." 

"  He  sent  no  other  word  than  that?  " 

"  Only  that  he  had  a  very  grave  communication  to 
make  to  us." 

Alan  did  not  ask  more ;  at  mention  of  Father  Perron 
he  had  seemed  to  feel  himself  once  more  among  the 
crashing,  charging  freight  cars  on  the  ferry  and  to 
see  Benjamin  Corvet,  pinned  amid  the  wreckage  and 
speaking  into  the  ear  of  the  priest. 

Father  Perron,  walking  up  and  down  upon  the  docks 
close  to  the  railway  station  at  St.  Ignace,  where  the 
tracks  end  without  bumper  or  blocking  of  any  kind 
above  the  waters  of  the  lake,  was  watching  south  di- 
rectly across  the  Straits.  It  was  mid-afternoon  and 


352  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

the  ice-crusher  Ste.  Marie,  which  had  been  expected  at 
St.  Ignace  about  this  time,  was  still  some  four  miles 
out.  During  the  storm  of  the  week  before,  the  floes 
had  jammed  into  that  narrow  neck  between  the  great 
lakes  of  Michigan  and  Huron  until,  men  said,  the 
Straits  were  ice-filled  to  the  bottom ;  but  the  Ste.  Marie 
and  the  St.  Ignace  had  plied  steadily  back  and  forth. 

Through  a  stretch  where  the  ice-crusher  now  was  the 
floes  had  changed  position,  or  new  ice  was  blocking  the 
channel ;  for  the  Ste.  Marie,  having  stopped,  was  back- 
ing; now  her  funnels  shot  forth  fresh  smoke,  and  she 
charged  ahead.  The  priest  clenched  his  hands  as  the 
steamer  met  the  shock  and  her  third  propeller  —  the 
one  beneath  her  bow  —  sucked  the  water  out  from  un- 
der the  floe  and  left  it  without  support ;  she  met  the  ice 
barrier,  crashed  some  of  it  aside;  she  broke  through, 
recoiled,  halted,  charged,  climbed  up  the  ice  and  broke 
through  again.  As  she  drew  nearer  now  in  her  ap- 
proach, the  priest  walked  back  toward  the  railway 
station. 

It  was  not  merely  a  confessional  which  Father  Per- 
ron had  taken  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  man  on  Num- 
ber 25 ;  it  was  an  accusation  of  crime  against  another 
man  as  well ;  and  the  confession  and  accusation  both 
had  been  made,  not  only  to  gain  forgiveness  from  God, 
but  to  right  terrible  wrongs.  If  the  confession  left 
some  things  unexplained,  it  did  not  lack  confirmation; 
the  priest  had  learned  enough  to  be  certain  that  it 
was  no  hallucination  of  madness.  He  had  been 
charged  definitely  to  repeat  what  had  been  told  him 
to  the  persons  he  was  now  going  to  meet ;  so  he  watched 
expectantly  as  the  Ste.  Marie  made  its  landing.  A 
train  of  freight  cars  was  upon  the  ferry,  but  a  single 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   353 

passenger  coach  was  among  them,  and  the  switching 
engine  brought  this  off  first.  A  tall,  handsome  man 
whom  Father  Perron  thought  must  be  the  Mr.  Sherrill 
with  whom  he  had  communicated  appeared  upon  the 
car  platform;  the  young  man  from  Number  25  fol- 
lowed him,  and  the  two  helped  down  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful girl. 

They  recognized  the  priest  by  his  dress  and  came 
toward  him  at  once. 

"Mr.  Sherrill?"  Father  Perron  inquired. 

Sherrill  assented,  taking  the  priest's  hand  and  in- 
troducing his  daughter. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  safe,  Mr.  Stafford."  The 
priest  had  turned  to  Alan.  "  We  have  thanks  to  offer 
up  for  that,  you  and  I !  " 

"  I  am  his  son,  then !     I  thought  that  must  be  so." 

Alan  trembled  at  the  priest's  sign  of  confirmation. 
There  was  no  shock  of  surprise  in  this ;  he  had  sus- 
pected ever  since  August,  when  Captain  Stafford's 
watch  and  the  wedding  ring  had  so  strangely  come  to 
Constance,  that  he  might  be  Stafford's  son.  His  in- 
quiries had  brought  him,  at  that  time,  to  St.  Ignace, 
as  Father  Perron's  had  brought  him  now;  but  he  had 
not  been  able  to  establish  proof  of  any  connection  be- 
tween himself  and  the  baby  son  of  Captain  Stafford  who 
had  been  born  in  that  town. 

He  looked  at  Constance,  as  they  followed  the  priest 
to  the  motor  which  ^as  waiting  to  take  them  to  the 
house  of  old  Father  Benitot,  whose  guest  Father  Per- 
ron was ;  she  was  very  quiet.  What  would  that  grave 
statement  which  Father  Perron  was  to  make  to  them 
mean  to  him  —  to  Alan  ?  Would  further  knowledge 
about  that  father  whom  he  had  not  known,  but  whose 


354  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

blood  was  his  and  whose  name  he  now  must  bear,  bring 
pride  or  shame  to  him? 

A  bell  was  tolling  somewhere,  as  they  followed  the 
priest  into  Father  Benitot's  small,  bare  room  which  had 
been  prepared  for  their  interview.  Father  Perron 
went  to  a  desk  and  took  therefrom  some  notes  which 
he  had  made.  He  did  not  seem,  as  he  looked  through 
these  notes,  to  be  refreshing  his  memory ;  rather  he 
seemed  to  be  seeking  something  which  the  notes  did  not 
supply ;  for  he  put  them  back  and  reclosed  the  desk. 

"  What  I  have,"  he  said,  speaking  more  particularly 
to  Sherrill,  "  is  the  terrible,  not  fully  coherent  state- 
ment of  a  dying  man.  It  has  given  me  names  —  also 
it  has  given  me  facts.  But  isolated.  It  does  not  give 
what  came  before  or  what  came  after;  therefore,  it 
does  not  make  plain.  I  hope  that,  as  Benjamin  Cor- 
vet's  partner,  you  can  furnish  what  I  lack." 

"  What  is  it  you  want  to  know  ?  "  Sherrill  asked. 

"What  were  the  relations  between  Benjamin  Cor- 
vet  and  Captain  Stafford?" 

Sherrill  thought  a  moment. 

"  Corvet,"  he  replied,  "  was  a  very  able  man ;  he  had 
insight  and  mental  grasp  —  and  he  had  the  fault  which 
sometimes  goes  with  those,  a  hesitancy  of  action. 
Stafford  was  an  able  man  too,  considerably  younger 
than  Corvet.  We,  ship  owners  of  the  lakes,  have  not 
the  world  to  trade  in,  Father  Perron,  as  they  have 
upon  the  sea;  if  you  observe  our  great  shipping  lines 
you  will  find  that  they  have,  it  would  seem,  apportioned 
among  themselves  the  traffic  of  the  lakes ;  each  line 
has  its  own  connections  and  its  own  ports.  But  this 
did  not  come  through  agreement,  but  through  con- 
flict; the  strong  have  survived  and  made  a  division  of 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  «  MIWAKA  "   355 

the  traffic;  the  weak  have  died.  Twenty  years  ago, 
when  this  conflict  of  competing  interests  was  at  its 
height,  Corvet  was  the  head  of  one  line,  Stafford  was 
head  of  another,  and  the  two  lines  had  very  much  the 
same  connections  and  competed  for  the  same  car- 
goes." 

"  I  begin  to  see ! "  Father  Perron  exclaimed. 
"  Please  go  on." 

"  In  the  early  nineties  both  lines  still  were  young ; 
Stafford  had,  I  believe,  two  ships ;  Corvet  had  three." 

"So  few?     Yes;  it  grows  plainer!" 

"  In  1894,  Stafford  managed  a  stroke  which,  if  fate 
had  not  intervened,  must  have  assured  the  ultimate 
extinction  of  Corvet's  line  or  its  absorption  into  Staf- 
ford's. Stafford  gained  as  his  partner  Franklin 
Ramsdell,  a  wealthy  man  whom  he  had  convinced  that 
the  lake  traffic  offered  chances  of  great  profit;  and 
this  connection  supplied  him  with  the  capital  whose 
lack  had  been  hampering  him,  as  it  was  still  hamper- 
ing Corvet.  The  new  firm  —  Stafford  and  Ramsdell 
—  projected  the  construction,  with  Ramsdell's  money, 
of  a  number  of  great  steel  freighters.  The  first  of 
these  —  the  Miwaka,  a  test  ship  whose  experience  was 
to  guide  them  in  the  construction  of  the  rest  —  was 
launched  in  the  fall  of  1895,  and  was  lost  on  its  maiden 
trip  with  both  Stafford  and  Ramsdell  aboard.  The 
Stafford  and  Ramsdell  interests  could  not  survive  the 
death  of  both  owners  and  disappeared  from  the  lakes. 
Is  this  what  you  wanted  to  know  ?  " 

The  priest  nodded.  Alan  leaned  tensely  forward, 
watching;  what  he  had  heard  seemed  to  have  increased 
and  deepened  the  priest's  feeling  over  what  he  had  to 
tell  and  to  have  aided  his  comprehension  of  it. 


356  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  His  name  was  Caleb  Stafford,"  Father  Perron  be- 
gan. "  (This  is  what  Benjamin  Corvet  told  to  me, 
when  he  was  dying  under  the  wreckage  on  the  ferry.) 
*  He  was  as  fair  and  able  a  man  as  the  lakes  ever  knew. 
I  had  my  will  of  most  men  in  the  lake  trade  in  those 
days;  but  I  could  not  have  my  will  of  him.  With  all 
the  lakes  to  trade  in,  he  had  to  pick  out  for  his  that 
traffic  which  I  already  had  chosen  for  my  own.  But  I 
fought  him  fair,  Father  —  I  fought  him  fair,  and  I 
would  have  continued  to  do  that  to  the  end. 

"  '  I  was  at  Manistee,  Father,  in  the  end  of  the  sea- 
son —  December  fifth  of  1895.  The  ice  had  begun  to 
form  very  early  that  year  and  was  already  bad;  there 
was  cold  and  a  high  gale.  I  had  laid  up  one  of  my 
ships  at  Manistee,  and  I  was  crossing  that  night  upon 
a  tug  to  Manitowoc,  where  another  was  to  be  laid  up. 
I  had  still  a  third  one  lading  upon  the  northern  penin- 
sula at  Manistique  for  a  last  trip  which,  if  it  could  be 
made,  would  mean  a  good  profit  from  a  season  which  so 
far,  because  of  Stafford's  competition,  had  been  only 
fair.  After  leaving  Manistee,  it  grew  still  more  cold, 
and  I  was  afraid  the  ice  would  close  in  on  her  and  keep 
her  where  she  was,  so  I  determined  to  go  north  that 
night  and  see  that  she  got  out.  None  knew,  Father, 
except  those  aboard  the  tug,  that  I  had  made  that 
change. 

"  '  At  midnight,  Father,  to  westward  of  the  Foxes, 
we  heard  the  four  blasts  of  a  steamer  in  distress  — 
the  four  long  blasts  which  have  sounded  in  my  soul 
ever  since!  jWe  turned  toward  where  we  saw  the 
steamer's  lights ;  we  went  nearer  and,  Father,  it  was 
his  great,  new  ship  —  the  Miwaka!  We  had  heard 
two  days  before  that  she  had  passed  the  Soo;  we  had 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "       357 

not  known  more  than  that  of  where  she  was.  She  had 
broken  her  new  shaft,  Father,  and  was  intact  except 
for  that,  but  helpless  in  the  rising  sea  .  .  .' " 

The  priest  broke  off.  "The  Miwaka!  I  did  not 
understand  all  that  that  had  meant  to  him  until  just 
now  —  the  new  ship  of  the  rival  line,  whose  building 
meant  for  him  failure  and  defeat ! 

"  There  is  no  higher  duty  than  the  rescue  of  those  in 
peril  at  sea.  He  —  Ben j  amin  Corvet,  who  told  me 
this  —  swore  to  me  that,  at  the  beginning  none  upon 
the  tug  had  any  thought  except  to  give  aid.  A  small 
line  was  drifted  down  to  the  tug  and  to  this  a  hawser 
was  attached  which  they  hauled  aboard.  There  hap- 
pened then  the  first  of  those  events  which  led  those  upon 
the  tug  into  doing  a  great  wrong.  He  —  Benj  amin 
Corvet  —  had  taken  charge  of  the  wheel  of  the  tug; 
three  men  were  handling  the  hawser  in  ice  and  washing 
water  at  the  stern.  The  whistle  accidentally  blew, 
which  those  on  the  Miwaka  understood  to  mean  that 
the  hawser  had  been  secured,  so  they  drew  in  the  slack ; 
the  hawser,  tightened  unexpectedly  by  the  pitching  of 
the  sea,  caught  and  crushed  the  captain  and  deckhand 
of  the  tug  and  threw  them  into  the  sea. 

"  Because  they  were  short-handed  now  upon  the  tug, 
and  also  because  consultation  was  necessary  over  what 
was  to  be  done,  the  young  owner  of  the  Miwaka,  Cap- 
tain Stafford,  came  down  the  hawser  onto  the  tug 
after  the  line  had  bee*  put  straight.  He  came  to  the 
wheelhouse,  where  Benjamin  Corvet  was,  and  they  con- 
sulted. Then  Benjamin  Corvet  learned  that  the  other 
owner  was  aboard  the  new  ship  as  well  —  Ramsdell  — 
the  man  whose  money  you  have  just  told  me  had  built 
this  and  was  soon  to  build  other  ships.  I  did  not  un- 


358  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

derstand  before  why  learning  that  affected  him  so 
much. 

"  *  Stafford  wanted  us  '  (this  is  what  Benjamin  Cor- 
vet  said)  *  to  tow  him  up  the  lake ;  I  would  not  do  that, 
but  I  agreed  to  tow  him  to  Manistique.  The  night 
was  dark,  Father  —  no  snow,  but  frightful  wind  which 
had  been  increasing  until  it  now  sent  the  waves  washing 
clear  across  the  tug.  We  had  gone  north  an  hour 
when,  low  upon  the  water  to  my  right,  I  saw  a  light, 
and  there  came  to  me  the  whistling  of  a  buoy  which  told 
me  that  we  were  passing  nearer  than  I  would  have 
wished,  even  in  daytime,  to  windward  of  Boulder  Reef. 
There  are,  Father,  no  people  on  that  reef;  its  sides  of 
ragged  rock  go  straight  down  forty  fathoms  into  the 
lake. 

"  '  I  looked  at  the  man  with  me  in  the  wheelhouse  — 
at  Stafford  —  and  hated  him  !  I  put  my  head  out  at 
the  wheelhouse  door  and  looked  back  at  the  lights  at  the 
new,  great  steamer,  following  safe  and  straight  at  the 
end  of  its  towline.  I  thought  of  my  two  men  upon  the 
tug  who  had  been  crushed  by  clumsiness  of  those  on 
board  that  ship ;  and  how  my  own  ships  had  had  a 
name  for  never  losing  a  man  and  that  name  would  be 
lost  now  because  of  the  carelessness  of  Stafford's  men ! 
And  the  sound  of  the  shoal  brought  the  evil  thought 
to  me.  Suppose  I  had  not  happened  across  his  ship; 
would  it  have  gone  upon  some  reef  like  this  and  been 
lost?  I  thought  that  if  now  the  hawser  should  break, 
I  would  be  rid  of  that  ship  and  perhaps  of  the  owner 
who  was  on  board  as  well.  We  could  not  pick  up  the 
tow  line  again  so  close  to  the  reef.  The  steamer 
would  drift  down  upon  the  rocks  — '  " 

Father  Perron  hesitated  an  instant.     "  I  bear  wit- 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  «  MIWAKA  "   359 

ness,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  that  Benjamin  Corvet  as- 
sured me  —  his  priest  —  that  it  was  only  a  thought; 
the  evil  act  which  it  suggested  was  something  which  he 
would  not  do  or  even  think  of  doing.  But  he  spoke 
something  of  what  was  in  his  mind  to  Stafford,  for  he 
said : 

"  *  I  must  look  like  a  fool  to  you  to  keep  on  towing 
your  ship ! ' 

"  They  stared,  he  told  me,  into  one  another's  eyes, 
and  Stafford  grew  uneasy. 

« <  We'd  have  been  all  right,'  he  answered,  *  until  we 
had  got  help,  if  you'd  left  us  where  we  were ! '  He  too 
listened  to  the  sound  of  the  buoy  and  of  the  water 
dashing  on  the  shoal.  '  You  are  taking  us  too  close,' 
he  said  — *  too  close ! '  He  went  aft  then  to  look  at 
the  tow  line." 

Father  Perron's  voice  ceased ;  what  he  had  to  tell  now 
made  his  face  whiten  as  he  arranged  it  in  his  memory. 
Alan  leaned  forward  a  little  and  then,  with  an  effort, 
sat  straight.  Constance  turned  and  gazed  at  him;  but 
he  dared  not  look  at  her.  He  felt  her  hand  warm  upon 
his ;  it  rested  there  a  moment  and  moved  away. 

"  There  was  a  third  man  in  the  wheelhouse  when 
these  things  were  spoken,"  Father  Perron  said,  "  the 
mate  of  the  ship  which  had  been  laid  up  at  Manis- 
tee." 

"  Henry  Spearman,"  Sherrill  supplied. 

"That  is  the  name.  Benjamin  Corvet  told  me  of 
that  man  that  he  was  young,  determined,  brutal,  and 
set  upon  getting  position  and  wealth  for  himself  by 
any  means.  He  watched  Corvet  and  Stafford  while 
they  were  speaking,  and  he  too  listened  to  the  shoal 
until  Stafford  had  come  back ;  then  he  went  aft. 


360  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

"  '  I  looked  at  him,  Father,'  Benjamin  Corvet  said 
to  me,  '  and  I  let  him  go  —  not  knowing.  He  came 
back  and  looked  at  me  once  more,  and  went  again  to 
the  stern;  Stafford  had  been  watching  him  as  well  as 
I,  and  he  sprang  away  from  me  now  and  scrambled 
after  him.  The  tug  leaped  suddenly;  there  was  no 
longer  any  tow  holding  it  back,  for  the  hawser  had 
parted ;  and  I  knew,  Father,  the  reason  was  that  Spear- 
man had  cut  it ! 

" ' 1  rang  for  the  engine  to  be  slowed,  and  I  left  the 
wheel  and  went  aft ;  some  struggle  was  going  on  at  the 
stern  of  the  tug;  a  flash  came  from  there  and  the 
cracking  of  a  shot.  Suddenly  all  was  light  about  me 
as,  aware  of  the  breaking  of  the  hawser  and  alarmed 
by  the  shot,  the  searchlight  of  the  Miwdka  turned  upon 
the  tug.  The  cut  end  of  the  hawser  was  still  upon  the 
tug,  and  Spearman  had  been  trying  to  clear  this  when 
Stafford  attacked  him ;  they  fought,  and  Stafford 
struck  Spearman  down.  He  turned  and  cried  out 
against  me  —  accusing  me  of  having  ordered  Spearman 
to  cut  the  line.  He  held  up  the  cut  end  toward  Rams- 
dell  on  the  Miwaka  and  cried  out  to  him  and  showed 
by  pointing  that  it  had  been  cut.  Blood  was  running 
from  the  hand  with  which  he  pointed,  for  he  had  been 
shot  by  Spearman;  and  now  again  and  a  second  and  a 
third  time,  from  where  he  lay  upon  the  deck,  Spearman 
fired.  The  second  of  those  shots  killed  the  engineer 
who  had  rushed  out  where  I  was  on  the  deck ;  the  third 
shot  went  through  Stafford's  head.  The  Mvwaka  was 
drifting  down  upon  the  reef ;  her  whistle  sounded  again 
and  again  the  four  long  blasts.  The  fireman,  who  had 
followed  the  engineer  up  from  below,  fawned  on  me !  I 
was  safe  for  all  of  him,  he  said ;  I  could  trust  Luke  — 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   361 

Luke  would  not  tell!  He  too  thought  I  had  ordered 
the  doing  of  that  thing ! 

"  '  From  the  Miwaka,  Ramsdell  yelled  curses  at  me, 
threatening  me  for  what  he  thought  that  I  had  done! 
I  looked  at  Spearman  as  he  got  up  from  the  deck,  and 
I  read  the  thought  that  had  been  in  him;  he  had  be- 
lieved that  he  could  cut  the  hawser  in  the  dark,  none 
seeing,  and  that  our  word  that  it  had  been  broken 
would  have  as  much  strength  as  any  accusation  Staf- 
ford could  make.  He  had  known  that  to  share  a  secret 
such  as  that  with  me  would  "  make  "  him  on  the  lakes ; 
for  the  loss  of  the  Miieaka  would  cripple  Stafford  and 
Ramsdell  and  strengthen  me;  and  he  could  make  me 
share  with  him  whatever  success  I  made.  But  Stafford 
had  surprised  him  at  the  hawser  and  had  seen. 

"  '  I  moved  to  denounce  him,  Father,  as  I  realized 
this;  I  moved  —  but  stopped.  He  had  made  himself 
safe  against  accusation  by  me !  None  —  none  ever 
would  believe  that  he  had  done  this  except  by  my  order, 
if  he  should  claim  that ;  and  he  made  plain  that  he  was 
going  to  claim  that.  He  called  me  a  fool  and  defied 
me.  Luke  —  even  my  own  man,  the  only  one  left  on 
the  tug  with  us  —  believed  it !  And  there  was  murder 
in  it  now,  with  Stafford  dying  there  upon  the  deck  and 
with  the  certainty  that  all  those  on  the  Miwaka  could 
not  be  saved.  I  felt  the  noose  as  if  it  had  been  already 
tied  about  my  neck!  And  I  had  done  no  wrong, 
Father!  I  had  only  thought  wrong! 

"  '  So  long  as  one  lived  among  those  on  the  Miwaka 
who  had  seen  what  was  done,  I  knew  I  would  be  hanged ; 
yet  I  would  have  saved  them  if  I  could.  But,  in  my. 
comprehension  of  what  this  meant,  I  only  stared  at 
Stafford  where  he  lay  and  then  at  Spearman,  and  I  let 


362  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

him  get  control  of  the  tug.  The  tug,  whose  wheel  I 
had  lashed,  heading  her  into  the  waves,  had  been  mov- 
ing slowly.  Spearman  pushed  me  aside  and  went  to 
the  wheelhouse;  he  sent  Luke  to  the  engines,  and  from 
that  moment  Luke  was  his.  He  turned  the  tug  about 
to  where  we  still  saw  the  lights  of  the  Miwaka.  The 
steamer  had  struck  upon  the  reef;  she  hung  there  for 
a  time  ;  and  Spearman  —  he  had  the  wheel  and  Luke, 
at  his  orders,  was  at  the  engine  —  held  the  tug  off  and 
we  beat  slowly  to  and  fro  until  the  Miwaka  slipped 
off  and  sank.  Some  had  gone  down  with  her,  no 
doubt;  but  two  boats  had  got  off,  carrying  lights. 
They  saw  the  tug  approaching  and  cried  out  and 
stretched  their  hands  to  us  ;  but  Spearman  stopped  the 
tug.  They  rowed  towards  us  then,  but  when  they 
got  near,  Spearman  moved  the  tug  away  from  them, 
and  then  again  stopped.  They  cried  out  again  and 
rowed  toward  us;  again  he  moved  the  tug  away,  and 
then  they  understood  and  stopped  rowing  and  cried 
curses  at  us.  One  boat  soon  drifted  far  away;  we 
knew  of  its  capsizing  by  the  extinguishing  of  its  light. 
The  other  capsized  near  to  where  we  were.  Those  in  it 
who  had  no  lifebelts  and  could  not  swim,  sank  first. 
Some  could  swim  and,  for  a  while  they  fought  the 


Alan,  as  he  listened,  ceased  consciously  to  separate 
the  priest's  voice  from  the  sensations  running  through 
him.  His  father  was  Stafford,  dying  at  Corvet's  feet 
while  Corvet  watched  the  death  of  the  crew  of  the 
MiwaJca;  Alan  himself,  a  child,  was  floating  with  a  life- 
belt among  those  struggling  in  the  water  whom  Spear- 
man and  Corvet  were  watching  die.  Memory  ;  was  it 
that  which  now  had  come  to  him?  No;  rather  it  was 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   363 

a  realization  of  all  the  truths  which  the  priest's  words 
were  bringing  together  and  arranging  rightly  for  him. 

He,  a  child,  saved  by  Corvet  from  the  water  because 
he  could  not  bear  witness,  seemed  to  be  on  that  tug, 
sea-swept  and  clad  in  ice,  crouching  beside  the  form 
of  his  father  while  Corvet  stood  aghast  —  Corvet,  still 
hearing  the  long  blasts  of  distress  from  the  steamer 
which  was  gone,  still  hearing  the  screams  of  the  men 
who  were  drowned.  Then,  when  all  were  gone  who 
could  tell,  Spearman  turned  the  tug  to  Manitowoc. 
.  .  .  Now  again  the  priest's  voice  became  audible  to 
Alan. 

Alan's  father  died  in  the  morning.  All  day  they 
stayed  out  in  the  storm,  avoiding  vessels.  They  dared 
not  throw  Stafford's  body  overboard  or  that  of  the  en- 
gineer, because,  if  found,  the  bullet  holes  would  have 
aroused  inquiry.  When  night  came  again,  they  had 
taken  the  two  ashore  at  some  wild  spot  and  buried 
them;  to  make  identification  harder,  they  had  taken 
the  things  that  they  had  with  them  and  buried  them 
somewhere  else.  The  child  —  Alan  —  Corvet  had 
smuggled  ashore  and  sent  away ;  he  had  told  Spearman 
later  that  the  child  had  died. 

"Peace  —  rest!"  Father  Perron  said  in  a  deep 
voice.  "  Peace  to  the  dead !  " 

But  for  the  living  there  had  been  no  peace.  Spear- 
man had  forced  Corvet  to  make  him  his  partner ;  Cor- 
vet had  tried  to  take  up  his  life  again,  but  had  not 
been  able.  His  wife,  aware  that  something  was  wrong 
with  him,  had  learned  enough  so  that  she  had  left  him. 
Luke  had  come  and  come  and  come  again  for  black- 
mail, and  Corvet  had  paid  him.  Corvet  grew  rich; 
those  connected  with  him  prospered;  but  with  Corvet 


364  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

lived  always  the  ghosts  of  those  he  had  watched  die 
with  the  M'vwaka  —  of  those  who  would  have  prospered 
with  Stafford  except  for  what  had  been  done.  Corvet 
had  secretly  sought  and  followed  the  fate  of  the  kin 
of  those  people  who  had  been  murdered  to  benefit  him; 
he  found  some  of  their  families  destroyed;  he  found 
almost  all  poor  and  struggling.  And  though  Corvet 
paid  Luke  to  keep  the  crime  from  disclosure,  yet  Cor- 
vet swore  to  himself  to  confess  it  all  and  make  such 
restitution  as  he  could.  But  each  time  that  the  day 
he  had  appointed  with  himself  arrived,  he  put  it  off  and 
off  and  paid  Luke  again  and  again.  Spearman  knew 
of  his  intention  and  sometimes  kept  him  from  it.  But 
Corvet  had  made  one  close  friend;  and  when  that 
friend's  daughter,  for  whom  Corvet  cared  now  most  of 
all  in  the  world,  had  been  about  to  marry  Spearman, 
Corvet  defied  the  cost  to  himself,  and  he  gained 
strength  to  oppose  Spearman.  So  he  had  written  to 
Stafford's  son  to  come ;  he  had  prepared  for  confession 
and  restitution ;  but,  after  he  had  done  this  and  while 
he  waited,  something  had  seemed  to  break  in  his  brain ; 
too  long  preyed  upon  by  terrible  memories,  and  the 
ghosts  of  those  who  had  gone,  and  by  the  echo  of  their 
voices  crying  to  him  from  the  water,  Corvet  had  wan- 
dered away ;  he  had  come  back,  under  the  name  of  one 
of  those  whom  he  had  wronged,  to  the  lake  life  from 
which  he  had  sprung.  Only  now  and  then,  for  a  few 
hours,  he  had  intervals  when  he  remembered  all;  in 
one  of  these  he  had  dug  up  the  watch  and  the  ring  and 
other  things  which  he  had  taken  from  Captain  Staf- 
ford's pockets  and  written  to  himself  directions  of  what 
to  do  with  them,  when  his  mind  again  failed. 

And  for  Spearman,  strong  against  all  that  assailed 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   365 

Corvet,  there  had  been  always  the  terror  of  the  Indian 
Drum  —  the  Drum  which  had  beat  short  for  the  Mi- 
•waka,  the  Drum  which  had  known  that  one  was  saved ! 
That  story  came  from  some  hint  which  Luke  had 
spread,  Corvet  thought;  but  Spearman,  born  near  by 
the  Drum,  believed  that  the  Drum  had  known  and  that 
the  Drum  had  tried  to  tell;  all  through  the  years 
Spearman  had  dreaded  the  Drum  which  had  tried  to 
betray  him. 

So  it  was  by  the  Drum  that,  in  the  end,  Spearman 
was  broken. 

The  priest's  voice  had  stopped,  as  Alan  slowly  real- 
ized ;  he  heard  Sherrill's  voice  speaking  to  him. 

"  It  was  a  trust  that  he  left  you,  Alan ;  I  thought 
it  must  be  that  —  a  trust  for  those  who  suffered  by  the 
loss  of  your  father's  ship.  I  don't  know  yet  how  it 
can  be  fulfilled ;  and  we  must  think  of  that." 

"  That's  how  I  understand  it,"  Alan  said. 

Fuller  consciousness  of  what  Father  Perron's  story 
meant  to  him  was  flowing  through  him  now.  Wrong, 
great  wrong  there  had  been,  as  he  had  known  there 
must  be;  but  it  had  not  been  as  he  had  feared,  for  he 
and  his  had  been  among  the  wronged  ones.  The  name 
—  the  new  name  that  had  come  to  him  —  he  knew  what 
that  must  be :  Robert  Alan  Stafford ;  and  there  was  no 
shadow  on  it.  He  was  the  son  of  an  honest  man  and 
a  good  woman ;  he  was  clean  and  free ;  free  to  think  as 
he  was  thinking  now  of  the  girl  beside  him ;  and  to  hope 
that  she  was  thinking  so  of  him. 

Through  the  tumult  in  his  soul  he  became  aware  of 
physical  feelings  again,  and  of  Sherrill's  hand  put  upon 
his  shoulder  in  a  cordial,  friendly  grasp.  Then  an- 
other hand,  small  and  firm,  touched  his,  and  he  felt  its 


366  THE  INDIAN  DRUM 

warm,  tightening  grasp  upon  his  fingers ;  he  looked  up, 
and  his  eyes  filled  and  hers,  he  saw,  were  brimming  too. 

They  walked  together,  later  in  the  day,  up  the  hill 
to  the  small,  white  house  which  had  been  Caleb  Staf- 
ford's. Alan  had  seen  the  house  before  but,  not  know- 
ing then  whether  the  man  who  had  owned  it  had  or  had 
not  been  his  father,  he  had  merely  looked  at  it  from  the 
outside.  There  had  been  a  small  garden  filled  with 
flowers  before  it  then;  now  yard  and  roofs  were  buried 
deep  in  snow.  The  woman  who  came  to  the  door  was 
willing  to  show  them  through  the  house;  it  had  only 
five  rooms.  One  of  those  upon  the  second  floor  was  so 
much  larger  and  pleasanter  than  the  rest  that  they 
became  quite  sure  that  it  was  the  one  in  which  Alan 
had  been  born,  and  where  his  young  mother  soon 
afterward  had  died. 

They  were  very  quiet  as  they  stood  looking  about. 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  known  her,"  Constance  said. 

The  woman,  who  had  showed  them  about,  had  gone 
to  another  room  and  left  them  alone. 

"  There  seems  to  have  been  no  picture  of  her  and 
nothing  of  hers  left  here  that  any  one  can  tell  me 
about ;  but,"  Alan  choked,  "  it's  good  to  be  able  to 
think  of  her  as  I  can  now." 

"  I  know,"  Constance  said.  "  When  you  were  away, 
I  used  to  think  of  you  as  finding  out  about  her  and  — 
and  I  wanted  to  be  with  you.  I'm  glad  I'm  with  you 
now,  though  you  don't  need  me  any  more !  " 

"  Not  need  you !  " 

"  I  mean  —  no  one  can  say  anything  against  her 
now ! " 

Alan  drew  nearer  her,  trembling. 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  "  MIWAKA  "   367 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  —  I  can  never  tell  you  what 
you  did  for  me,  believing  in  —  her  and  in  me,  no  mat- 
ter how  things  looked.  And  then,  coming  up  hoe  as 
you  did  —  for  me !  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  for  you,  Alan !  " 

"Constance!"  He  caught  her.  She  let  him  hold 
her;  then,  still  clinging  to  him,  she  put  him  a  little 
away. 

"  The  night  before  you  came  to  the  Point  last  sum- 
mer, Alan,  he  —  he  had  just  come  and  asked  me  aftain. 
I'd  promised ;  but  we  motored  that  evening  to  his  place 
and  —  there  were  sunflowers  there,  and  I  knew  that 
night  I  couldn't  love  him." 

"  Because  of  the  sunflowers  ?  " 

"  Sunflower  houses,  Alan,  they  made  me  think  of ;  do 
you  remember?  " 

"Remember!" 

The  woman  was  returning  to  them  now  and,  per- 
haps, it  was  as  well;  for  not  yet,  he  knew,  could  he  ask 
her  all  that  he  wished ;  what  had  happened  was  too  re- 
cent yet  for  that.  But  to  him,  Spearman  —  half  mad 
and  fleeing  from  the  haunts  of  men  —  was  beginning 
to  be  like  one  who  had  never  been ;  and  he  knew  she 
shared  this  feeling.  The  light  in  her  deep  eyes  was 
telling  him  already  what  her  answer  to  him  would  be; 
and  life  stretched  forth  before  him  full  of  love  *nd 
happiness  and  hope. 


THE    END 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

•«y  b«  hid  whatever  boohs  ira  sold.       Ask  for  Grotttt  t  Bunlap't  list 
iTHE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

'  A  New  York  society  girl  bays  a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  war- 
fare. Her  loyal  superintendent  rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  bandits.  A 
surprising:  rlimaT  brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

The  story  of  a  young  clergyman  who  uecomes  a  wanderer  in  the  creat  western 
uplands— until  at  last  love  and  faith  awake. 

DESERT  GOLD 

The  story  describes  the  recent  uprising  alone  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding 
of  the  gold  which  two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when  Mormon  authority 
ruled!  The  prosecution  of  Jane  Withersteen  is  the  theme.of  the  story. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo  Jones,  known  as  the 
preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  fhe  Arizona  desert  and  of  a  butt  in  "(hat 
wonderful  country  of  deep  canons  and  giant  pines." 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

A  lovely  girl,  wbo  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  a  young  New 
Englander.  The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands  that  the  girl  shall  become 
the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons— Well,  that's  the  problem  ol  this  great  story. 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

The  young  hero,  tiring  of  his  factory  grind,  starts  out  to  win  fame  and  fortune  as 
l  professional  ball  player.  His  hard  knocks  at  the  start  are  followed  by  such  success 
as  clean  sportsmanship,  courage  and  honesty  ought  to  win. 

BETTY  ZANE 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beautiful  young  sister  of 
old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

After  killing  a  man  in  self  defense,  Buck  Duane  becomes  an  outlaw  along  the 
Texas  border.  In  a  camp  on  the  Mexican  side  of  the  river,  he  finds  a  young  girfheld 
prisoner,  and  in  attempting:  to  rescue  her,  brings  down  upon  himself  the  wrath  of  her 
captors  and  henceforth  is  hunted  on  one  side  by  honest  men,  on  the  other  by  outlaws. 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

Joan  Randle,  in  a  spirit  of  anger,  sent  Jim  Cleve  out  to  a  lawless  Western  minin« 
camp,  to  prove  bis  mettle.  Then  realizing  that  she  loved  him — she  followed  him  out. 
On  her  way,  she  is  captured  by  a  bandit  band,  and  trouble  begins  when  she  shoots 
Kells,  the  leader— and  nurses  him  to  health  again.  Here  enters  another  romance- 
when  Joan,  disguised  as  an  outlaw,  observes  Jim,  in  the  throes  of  dissipation.  A  gold 
strike,  a  thrilling  robbery— gambling  and  gun  play  carry  you  along  breathlessly. 

THE   LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS. 
By  Helen  Cody  Wetmore  and  Zane  Grey 

'  The  life  story  of  Colonel  William  F.  Cody,  "  Buffalo  Bill."  as  told  by  his  sister  and 
Zane  G«y.  It  begins  with  his  boyhood  in  Iowa  and  his  first  encounter  with  an  In- 
dian. We  see  "  Bill "  as  a  pony  express  rider,  then  near  Fort  Sumter  as  Chief  of 
the  Scouts,  and  later  engaged  in  the  most  dangerous  Indian  campaigns.  There  is 
also  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  travels  of  "The  Wild  West"  Show.  No  char- 
acter  In  public  life  makes  a  stronger  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  America  than 
Buffalo  BUI,"  whose  daring  and  bravery  made  him  famous. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    "PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 
DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
kind  that  are  making  theatrical  history. 

MADAME  X.  By  Alexandra  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCon- 
]  aughy.  Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play* 
A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hus* 
band  would  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.  Her  love  fol 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.  A  tremen- 
dous dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    "By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
Stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
'With  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  and 
.fighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underflow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF    THE    STORM    COUNTRY.      By  Grace 
Miller  White.     Illust  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 
A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni- 
versity student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  in  her  life  and 
the  lives  of  those  about  her.    The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 
the  sensations  of  the  season. 

YOUNG    WALLINGFORD.     By  George    Randolph 

Chester.     Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh. 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 

man,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 

offence.    As  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probably 

the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seen 

On  the  stage. 

THE  INTRUSION  OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  G.  Wode- 

house.     Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 
Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.    Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A   Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
laughter  to  the  play-goers. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


GROSSET&  DUNLAP'S 
DRAMATIZED    NOVELS 

THE   KIND   THAT   ARE   MAKING  THEATRICAL   HISTORY 
May  be  had  wherever  books  are  told.       Art  for  Sronat  ft  Dunlip'«  im 

WITHIN  THE  LAW.     By  Bayard  Vdller  &  Marvin  Dana. 
Illustrated  by  Wm.  Charles  Cooke. 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  immensely  successful  play  which  ran 
for  two  years  in  New  York  and  Chicago. 

The  plot  of  this  powerful  novel  is  of  a  young  woman's  revenge 
directed  against  her  employer  who  allowed  her  to  be  sent  to  prison 
for  three  years  on  a  charge  of  theft,  of  which  she  was  innocent. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  MARY.     By  Robert  Carlton  Brown. 
Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

This  is  a  narrative  of  a  young  and  innocent  country  girl  who  is 
suddenly  thrown  into  the  very  heart  of  New  York,  "the  land  of  hei 
dreams,"  where  she  is  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  temptations  and  dangers. 

The  story  of  Mary  is  being  told  in  moving  pictures  and  played  ia 
theatres  all  over  the  world. 

THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM.      By  David  Belasco. 
Illustrated  by  John  Rae, 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  popular  play  in  which  David  War, 
field,  as  Old  Peter  Grimm,  scored  such  a  remarkable  success. 

The  story  is  spectacular   and  extremely   pathetic  but  withal, 
powerful,  both  as  a  book  and  as  a  play. 
THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  ffichens.r 

This  novel  is  an  intense,  glowing  epic  of  the  great  desert,  sunlit 
barbaric,  with  its  marvelous  atmosphere  of  vastness  and  loneliness, 

It  is  a  book  of  rapturous  beauty,  vivid  in  word  painting.    The  play 
has  been  staged  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 
BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ    By  General  Lew  Wallace. 

The  whole  world  has  placed  this  famous  Religious-Historical  Ro- 
mance on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  tima 
has  reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination.  A  tre- 
mendous dramatic  success. 

BOUGHT  AKD  PAID  FOR.     By  George  Broadhurst  and  Arthui 
Hornblow.          Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  stupendous  arraignment  of  modern  marriage  which  has  created 
an  interest  on  the  stage  that  is  almost  unparalleled:  The  scenes  are  laid 
in  New  York,  and  deal  with  conditions  among  both  the  rich  and  poor. 

The  interest  of  the  story  turns  on  the  day-by-day  developments 
which  show  the  young  wife  the  price  she  has  paid. 

AAfor  compete  fre.  X*  of  G.  &  D.  PofrJar  Cofiyrfgl**  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST..  NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  ba  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grossot  ft  Dnnlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 
quainted with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  unforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 
THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.  Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DAYLIGHT.'  Four  illustrations. 

The  story  ot  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as,a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then — but  read  the  story! 
A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  lif  e  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.  Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  of  dog  adventures  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.    Here  is  excitement '  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur- 
esque color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes. 
THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Pate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight.  > 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com- 
panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave.  «'')_, 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,    NEW  YORK 


B.  M.  Bower's  Novels 

Thrilling  Western  Romances 

Large  12  mos.  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth.     Illustrated 

CHIP,  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

A  breezy  wholesome  tale,  wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 
Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told.  Chip's 
jealousy  of  Dr.  Cecil  Grantham,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  big.  blue 
eyed  young  woman  is  very  amusing.  A  clever,  realistic  story  of 
the  American  Cow-puncher. 
THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with  the  adventures  of 
eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys.    Foremost  amongst 
them,  we  find  Ananias  Green,  known  as  Andy,  whose  imaginative 
powers  cause  many  lively  and  exciting  adventures. 
HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

A  realistic  story  of  the  plains,  describing  a  gay  party  of  Eas- 
terners who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  the  rough  homeli- 
ness of  a  Montana  ranch-house.  The  merry-hearted  cowboys,  the 
fascinating  Beatrice,  and  the  effusive  Sir  Redmond,  become  living, 
breathing  personalities. 
THE  RANGE  DWELLERS 

Here  are  everyday,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist. 
Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a.  Romeo 
and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright,  jolly,  entertaining  story, 
vathout  a  dull  page. 
THE   LURE  OF  DIM  TRAILS 

A  vivid  portrayal  of  the  experience  of  an  Eastern  author, 
among  the  cowboys  of  the  West,  in  search  of  "local  color"  for  a 
new  novel.  "Bud"  Thurston  learns  many  a  lesson  while  following 
"the  lure  of  the  dim  trails"  but  the  hardest,  and  probably  the  most 
welcome,  is  that  of  love.  «~-  ..f  . 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL  ^ 

«* Weary"  Davidson  leaves  the  ranch  for  Portland,  where  con- 
ventional city  life  palls  on  him.  A  little  branch  of  sage  brush, 
pungent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  prairie,  and  the  recollection  of 
a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  soon  compel  his  return.  _  A  wholesome 
love  story,  ^f 

THE  LONG  SHADOW^ 

A  vigorous  Western  story,  sparkling  with!  'the  free,  outdoor, 
life  of  a  mountain  ranch.  Its  scenes  shift  rapidly  and  its  actors  play 
the  game  of  life  fearlessly  and  like  men.  It  is  a  fine  love  story  from 
start  to  finish. 

Ask  (or  a  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26-ra  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES   OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

Hay  be  had  wherever  books  are  soil      Ask  for  Cresset  and  Dunlap's  list     ) 

THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
footprints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 


to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 


of  the  lonesome  pine." 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM  COME 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

M  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he.  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A'KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND. 
Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  f  eudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris~» 
tened  "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall' 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "  Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

Ask  for  complete  fr«*  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


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